


Damage Control

by gldngrl7



Series: Hanging On, Letting Go [3]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mild Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gldngrl7/pseuds/gldngrl7
Summary: Mon-El and Kara explore their sexual kinks.  Ral burrows deeper into Mon-El's fractured psyche.  Kara gets assigned a career-making story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously folks -- I didn't know where to begin with this story and the Muse said, 'start with sex'. Who am I to question the Muse? I find it's best to spoil her rotten and give her what she wants so she keeps coming back for more. 
> 
> There is much sex in this story because our supers have...ahem...stamina. I placed it in the tags but I must WARN you again, that the D/s undertones aren't even playing around anymore. We're moving a little into light (very light) 'daddy kink' territory, so be aware. It's still hot as hell though.
> 
> Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

 

_Nobody but you_

_‘Body but me, ‘body but us_

_Bodies together_

_I love to hold you close_

_Tonight and Always_

_\--Zayn  - “Pillow Talk”_

  

Kara’s eyes snap open, a rush of adrenaline pumping through her.  Blinking to focus her eye in the semi-darkness of the room, she finds him gazing down at her.  He’s leaning on his elbow, head resting in the upraised palm of his hand, a wistful smile on his face.  The room’s only illumination, the twinkle lights from the tiny Christmas tree on her wardrobe chest, causes his gray eyes to sparkle a little in the dim light.

 

“Hey…hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, running his other hand down her arm to thread his fingers with hers.  “Bad dream?  Was it about the hospital?”

 

She doesn’t recall a dream, only an intense insistence that she must awaken and a fear that he would be gone when she did.  “No,” she replies, shaking her head.  “Did you sleep at all?”

 

“I haven’t figured out how to sleep yet without taking my eyes off of you,” he replies, giving her his 1000 watt smile.

 

A compliment mean to charm worries her instead.  She’s never seen him sleep, and doesn’t know if he does so peacefully or fitfully.  It’s one of the symptoms for which Eliza warned her to be on the lookout.  Rolling towards him she places her hand on his cheek.  “You need to sleep, baby,” she urges, the concern evident in her voice.  She’s taken to calling him ‘baby’ recently, something he’s seen in several of the rom-coms he’s limited to watching.  He likes that too – likes being someone’s ‘baby’—likes belonging to someone again.

 

“I will,” he declares, but she’s not sure if he’s just placating her.  “When I get back to the DEO.”

 

“Oh!” she remembers.  Kara turns her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table.  11:50 PM.  “You have to be back in 15 minutes.”

 

“There’s still enough time,” he promises, the dimple on one cheek deepening.  Mon-El tugs her more tightly against his body.

 

“Enough time for wh—?”  When he pulls her close, she feels his insistence against her belly, just before his lips swoop down to capture hers.

 

He wastes no time on sweet, searching kisses, but chooses instead to go straight for what he wants—her tongue wrapped around his, the soft friction of their taste buds lighting their fire.  Once the spark is lit, he moves down her neck, his tongue leaving damp spots as he finds the places that make her pant with need.  “I can’t get enough of you.”  He brands her with whispers against rapidly heating skin.  His hips surge, his rigid cock seeking friction against her silken belly.

 

“Mon-El,” she breathes.  The entire canvas of her skin tingles from his touch, from his hands in her hair, his mouth on the sensitive column of her neck, and his erection making itself impossible to ignore.  As always, she tries to give as good as she gets, caressing the shifting muscles of his back before moving a hand around to the front to close around his cock.  Her thumb brushes at the milky white pre-ejaculate there, enough to make her wonder how long he had suffered in silence before she awoke.

 

“Will you have me again?” he inquires, moving back to her mouth, biting gently on her lower lip.  “Will you take me inside of you before I have to leave?”  He knows her answer, but loves to hear her say it all the same.

 

“Yes, Mon-El,” she replies without hesitation.  She hasn’t yet found the strength to deny him – or even try to.  Her need for him is constant, like her own heartbeat.  Her fingers wrap gently around his erection, enough to tease but not to satisfy, and his eyes slam shut in response.  She smiles, but ruins it by biting down on her lower lip.  He opens his eyes just in time to catch this action, one she knows drives him wild.

 

Mon-El glides a hand down her body, cupping and squeezing a bare breast as he goes; her breath catches while he provides a lascivious moan of appreciation.  She needs no words from him about the perfection of her breasts when the primal noises he makes tell the tale.  After thumbing her nipple to a hard peak, he leaves her breast, brushing along the sensitive spot on her hip before seeking out the rising heat of her thatch.  His fingers find her already sodden with desire.  With only minutes until he has to depart, there’s no time for teasing or cajoling for seduction, and now there is no need.

 

“Turn on the light,” he commands.  “I like to see your face when I take you.”

 

He uses the voice; the one that threatens mysterious reprisals should she question or deny.  The voice that causes her core to constrict and throb relentlessly, her wetness to intensify.  She knows that part of him wants her to rebel, so that he can punish her. But she also knows that it pleases him when she follows his commands.  Here, in this arena, when they’re naked and skin-on-skin, Kara loves nothing more than pleasing him.   It makes her wet to please him.

 

She turns away from him and reaches for the switch on the bottom of the lampstand.  Mon-El runs a hand down her spine, her back a vast open canvas he can’t resist. When she turns back she’s holding a square package in her hand, already ripping it open with her teeth.

 

‘Since you’re so eager, I think I’ll let you do all the work.”  He smirks at the confused expression on her face before grabbing her around the waist and rolling onto his back, taking her with him.  Her breasts crush against his chest and his hands snake down her body to grasp her lush bottom.  Mon-El presses on her ass, rolling her against the stiff steal trapped between their bodies.  “Fuck,” he hisses.  Ral was right.  It’s such darkly satisfying word.

 

“Me?  On top?” she asks.

 

“That’s the idea, sunshine.  You’re going to ride me until you come, and I’m going to watch you.  Put the condom on,” he instructs.

 

Kara sits up, her ass resting on his thighs, freeing his erection from its torturously pleasant entrapment.  Closing her fingers around him, she pumps him twice before pinching the tip of the condom and rolling the rest of it down his shaft.  “Now what?” she asks.  She’s pretty sure she knows what to do next, has read enough on the subject, but she _likes_ to be told.  Likes it when _he_ tells her.

 

Mon-El gives her hip a little spank, not enough to bruise, but enough to sting, Kara’s pelvis bucks forward in response—another rush of wetness taking her by surprise.  “Sit up on your knees,” he instructs, “and move closer.”  When she does as directed, Mon-El slides his hands behind his head as though preparing for a show.  “Now…take my cock in your hand and place it at the entrance of your clutch.”

 

“My clutch?” she echoes, having never before heard him use this word.

 

“Your pussy,” he clarifies, providing the English word he’d heard used.  “’Clutch’ is what we call it on Daxam.”

 

“I like that better.”

 

“I do too.  You know why?”  When she shakes her head he smiles.  “Because when I’m inside you, you clutch me so, so tight.”

 

Kara giggles.  “Now what?”

 

Watching her face carefully, he concludes, “I think you know what to do….”

 

“I like it when you tell me,” she confesses.  Kara blushes sweetly at the revelation of her secret.  She rubs the tip of his spear through the sopping wet seam of her ‘clutch’, teasing her swollen clit.  His heart swells inside his chest, and if he could take it out and hand it to her, he would.  This Kryptonian goddess of his— _his_ —truly is everything he’s ever dreamed of in a woman.

 

“Do you?” he marvels.  “Do you like it when I tell you what to do?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she nods.  Her long locks fall past her shoulders, creating a frustrating veil to rudely obstruct his view of her pert breasts.

 

“I want you to sit on my cock.  Take me inside as deep as you can.”

 

She commences upon his words, using her own body weight, inch by inch adjusting to the divine stretch of her core as he fills her.  She observes his reaction through heavy-lidded eyes as she lowers her body over his.  He struggles to keep his eyes open, gritting his teeth and gripping the back of his head as her wet, clasping heat envelops him.

 

“Can you take it all?” he asks, knowing she can.

 

“Uh-huh,” she whines, nodding her head.  “I can take it all.”  Just when she thinks he’s bottomed out, Mon-El spread his knees wide and she sinks down another inch.  She wants to cry from the joy of it; his cock deeper than he’s ever been before.  Kara places her hands on his belly for balance.

 

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, his voice deepening with arousal.

 

Kara’s hips wiggle, both in response to his praise and from an instinctual need to settle her body on his, to find the place where their two bodies become one.  Mon-El hisses at her tiny movements, pleasure rippling through him like electrical current, running under his skin from his balls to his toes and back to his scalp.  Kara moans, closing her eyes and biting down on her lips, her fingers clawing at the stripe of hair on his belly.  Mon-El realizes that she’s awaiting her next instruction.

 

“I want you to move,” he tells her.  “Up and down, side to side, front to back; it doesn’t matter.  Just find a rhythm that feels good for you.”

 

“What about you?” she asks.

 

“Oh, my sweet Kara, it’s going to feel good for me no matter what you do.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Just one thing: move your hair behind your back so I can see your breasts bouncing.”

 

“Okay, Mon-El.”  Without removing her hands from his belly, she tosses her head like a shampoo model, and if it were possible, Mon-El would have grown even harder inside of her.  Instead, his hips buck beneath her.  “Rao!” she cries, as their pelvises clash in a way that sends white hot pleasure spreading out from her core.

 

He grips tightly to the hair at the back of his head, holding his hands in place.  He wants nothing more than to grab her hips and hold her steady as he slams into her from below, but she has so much to learn and that would teach her nothing, but that he doesn’t keep his word.   And if he wants to push her limits, he must continue building trust.

 

When she moves, she tests the angle first by lifting almost entirely of him and then sinking slowly back down, and then again.  On the third time, she drops her body weight and slams back down, throwing her head back and drawing a yawning breath as though she’s just ascended from the depths of the ocean.

 

Kara primes herself, slowly dragging his cock out of her and then dropping back down upon him with bed-shaking force.  Over and over, her head thrown back so that the ends of her hair brushes against his thighs.  She hopes her breasts are bouncing enough to his liking.

 

“That’s good, sunshine,” he tells her, his voice rasping with desire.  “Why don’t you try moving back and forth?  Slide your hands up to my chest and lean forward a little.”

 

She follows suit, finding this new angle and rhythm easier to maintain.  Now that her clutch is primed, the undulating of her hips and the way his cock drags in and out at her whim, spirals her tension up and up and up.  She whimpers, “I’m so close, Mon-El.”

 

Mon-El loves that sound; when she whimpers his name, begging him to let her come.  He can feel how close she is to unspooling, feel the tiny flutters beginning around his cock, and he has to dig deep for the control to keep him from coming in anticipation of her climax.  “Don’t you come,” he commands, his voice daring her to disobey.

 

“I won’t, baby,” she promises, shaking her head frantically back and forth.  She wants it so bad; senses it just on the horizon.  But her body refuses to rebel against the wishes of her lover.  “I won’t come,” she vows again.

 

“Sit up,” he orders.  “Cup your breasts for me.  Like I would do it.”

 

Still rocking her hips back and forth, she sits up and cups her breasts in both hands as commanded, squeezing them tight and pressing them upward like he would do.  But her hands aren’t hot like his, don’t feel as aren’t as forceful.  Her breasts perform better for him, her nipples rising to his attentions, the delicate skin around them calling a rush of blood to its veins.

 

“Pinch them,” he says.  “Pinch and tug them until they’re nice and tight.  Don’t forget to keep moving.  Gods, you look so beautiful, Kara, riding me like a queen.”

 

Speeding her rhythm, Kara pinches and tugs on her nipples and though there’s an elementary reaction, a slice of arousal streaking to her core, it’s not the visceral reaction her body has when Mon-El does it.  When he does it, she’s set on fire.  When he does it, the streak of white hot pleasure that races from her breast straight to her core is like a tear in her soul.  It feels like he’s torn a hole in her soul and he’s attempting to climb inside and join her there.  Her own actions elicit but a shadow of that pleasure.

 

“How does that feel?” he asks.  Kara’s expression is one he has found directed at him far too frequently during their acquaintance – frustration.

 

“It doesn’t feel as good as when you do it,” she admits, her lips forming into a pout.  He wants to kiss that pout straight off of her face.  “It doesn’t make me ache like you do.”

 

She’s so open and so pure, trusting him with her truths, and he loves her all the more for it.  But this development, this discovery, is clearly upsetting to her.  “Try touching yourself,” he directs.  “Play with your clit.”

 

“Okay,” she sighs.  It’s not what she wants to hear, but she does it anyway, because it’s what he’s requested.  Her fingers slide into her folds, where their bodies meet, the wet noises of his cock sliding in and out of her clutch sounding incredibly erotic to her ears. 

Kara loves the symphony their bodies create, the soundtrack of their lovemaking; the groans, the moans, growls, whimpers, mewling whines, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of his repeated plunge into her burning depths, the gasps for breath, cries, screams, and the final sigh as they settle in each other’s arms after the storm passes.

 

When her fingers find her clit, blindly and from flawless memory, this too she finds disappointing.  Before Mon-El, before his perfect fingers and superhuman smile and before his slate-gray bedroom eyes, she used to bring herself off just fine.  But now she knows how it’s meant to be and there’s no going back.  She’s become numb to her own touch.  “Damn it,” she groans, but not in a good way.

 

Surprised by the curse, Mon-El’s half closed eyes snap open.  His girl is floundering and he can’t have that.  Knowing Kara, she will take it as a personal failure.

 

 “I need….”she mumbles.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I need you to touch me.  Why won’t you touch me?” 

 

“You haven’t asked me to touch you,” he replies, as if the answer should be obvious.

 

“Please,” she begs him, her eyes boring into his.  “Please will you touch me?”  Kara no longer has trouble with asking for what she wants, begging for it.  Sometimes she even makes her voice sound as pathetic as possible; the more pathetic, the quicker he rushes to fulfill her needs.  Beg for something, get something; there’s beauty in the simplicity of it.

 

“How badly do you want me to touch you?” he asks.  He doesn’t want to give in too easily.  This was supposed to be about using him as a tool to find her own pleasure, and giving in seems like waving a white flag of surrender.  On the other hand, he thinks, his fingers are tools too….

 

“I need you so bad, Mon-El!” she whimpers.  That sound that makes him feel like a god; makes him want to flip her on her back, throw her legs over his shoulders and pummel her clutch with every ounce of superhuman strength he has until he burns himself out inside of her.  “So bad,” she begs, nearly mindless with it.  “So bad it hurts, baby.”

 

Kara, seeking new sensation, anything to help get her _there_ , changes her rhythm by adding a circle of hips to her back and forth motion, creating an elliptical orbit around his cock.  Her breath catches as if she discovers a feeling she’s been looking for, but has been stubbornly eluding her all this time.  Her hands grip at her hair, tugging at it as she reaches and reaches, her head tilted back and her eyes closed.  “ _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ ,” she repeats.

 

It’s her prayer to him, or to her body, or to Rao for all he knows.  But he does know that it must be answered, because though he not’s sure she understands this fully yet, he suspects that her body is so submissive to his sexual will she won’t climax without his permission.  He’s been training her all along, once he saw how perfectly compliant she was on their first night together when she gave him her virginity.  On subsequent encounters he would encourage her to come on _his_ timetable, and when she complied, he began commanding her to come.  When she got too close, before he was ready, he would pull out or stop his actions until she cooled off enough to make it worth cranking her up again.

 

Tonight he simply commanded her _not_ to come and she complied without question.  Simply because it’s what he desired, it’s what pleased him.  It’s a beautiful thing when two people are so perfectly matched in the bedroom.

 

He unclasps his hands from behind his head and delves a thumb into her folds, locating the swollen bundle of nerves with ease.  He does nothing more, simply allowing her own movements to massage her clit against his thumb.  “ _Thankyouthankyouthankyou_ ,” she cries with each brush of his thumb.

 

“Ask me if you can come,” he instructs, training her in the next step.  She’s so perfect, she hardly needs but one lesson for a notion to stick.  “Ask me nicely.”

 

Kara drops her hands, one landing on his belly, and the other landing on the wrist of the hand touching her clit.  She applies just enough pressure to have her gasping at the electrical shock that slams into her core, though it’s not enough to spark her elusive orgasm.  “Please?” she begs, whines.  “Please can I come, Mon-El?”

 

“Is that asking _nicely_?” he teases.  “What will you give me, sunshine?”

 

“Anything,” she promises breathily.  “Anything!  Just let me come.”  Her voice goes dangerously into the tone of commands, so she scales it back to begging.  “Please?”

 

“Will you get on your knees and suck my cock tomorrow?”

 

“Yes!” she agrees, hurriedly.  “I will suck your cock so good,” she vows, her eyes holding his without looking away.

 

“Who do you come for, sunshine?”

 

“You!’ she cries.  “Only you, Mon-El.”

 

“Such a good girl,” he commends.  Ready now to end her torment (and because time flies when you’re having fun), he reaches his other hand to clasp a breast, pinching and tugging at the nipple until she pants with the pleasure of it.  At last, electrical stimuli races through her body at light speeds, jumping from nerve cluster to nerve cluster until it reaches the most sensitive nerve collection of all.  His thumb works that cluster, pressing and circling until, finally, she comes apart above him.

 

There’s little time left for pleasantries, so when she flies off the edge he grabs her hips both to steady her and also to help her ride him through it.  Her instinct is to stop, to let it wash over her like a wave upon the ocean’s shore and allow it to carry her out to sea.  But he wants her to fight it, to swim against the current, until it pulls her under and tosses her about, stealing all her breath and her control.  He wants to wring every last ounce of pleasure from her.

 

“I can’t,” she cries, shying away from the excruciating intensity of the orgasm for which she worked so hard.  She’s never been more beautiful; head thrown back, fingers digging into his chest, a sheen of sweat making her glow, and her skin blushing a rosy red that he put there.  His goddess.  His personal deity.  “Mon-El?”  Her cry asks for a reassurance he’s only too happy to provide.

 

“You can,” he reassures.  Finally, he bucks his hips upwards, holding her hips in place with each stroke, seeking his own release now.  She ripples and spasms uncontrollably around him, clenching him so tight in her grip he questions what wonders he performed in his past life to deserve her.  The need gathers strength in his lower spine and spreads to his balls, both arresting entirely as if their molecules ceased vibrating, hovering there on the precipice before…explosion.

 

“Fuck, Kara!” he growls, his jaw clenched, as tightly as her core is clamped around his cock.  His lungs seem incapable of taking in air, his body and brain too occupied with pumping his seed out to allow a contingency plan for intake.  And though he’s certain it only lasts for a moment, it feels like it goes on and on, his body giving to her, and hers prepared to take it so eagerly.  “Gods!” he shouts, the feeling of tension relieved so powerful it overtakes him.

 

When the last of him is spent, they collapse in each other’s arms, moist skin sealing them together like one double-backed creature with eight limbs.  But he can only hold her to him for the space of a breath or two, until he must roll her over, and carefully extract himself from her warmth.  There’s a mutual groan of disappointment when their connection is broken.

 

A quick glance at the clock as he walks to the bathroom tells him he has two minutes to make it back to the DEO without arousing the ire of the Powers-That-Be.  He wraps the used condom in toilet paper and throws it in the trash, he stares down at it for a moment, disturbed by his sudden hatred for the device.  At the sink he fills a glass with cold water before switching the tap to hot, waiting a moment for the water to change temperature and then soaking a washrag.  Mon-El enjoys these moments after sex, when he can take care of her in more tender ways.

 

Entering the bedroom again, he finds her sitting on her ankles, her hands on her knees, waiting for him.  This ritual has become familiar to her now – anticipated – after only a few evenings together.  Hi eyes studying her, he wants so badly to tell her, as she drains the proffered glass of water, the sleek column of her throat working to swallow the refreshment.

 

‘ _I love you_ ,’ he thinks, the words soft and adoring in his own head.  ‘ _I want you always_ ,’ he adds.  And then, the words he’ll never speak aloud, _‘Losing you would be the end of me_.’

 

Taking the glass from her, he sets it on the bedside table and when he turns back to her she’s standing up on her knees.  He begins by wiping her face with the warm, wet cloth and then moves down to her chest and shoulders.  He’ll work his way down her arms, under her breasts, to her belly and eventually to her thatch and between her thighs.  He hasn’t long to complete this task, but he refuses, for her sake, to withhold even one moment of the ritual. 

 

As he cleanses her, he begins to talk.  As he stood staring at the reviled condom in the garbage bin, an idea formed in his mind’s eye.  It would push her limits—push _their_ limits—but there was no harm in asking.  If she said no, he would accept it, as a good caretaker should.

 

“I was thinking about tomorrow,” he begins.  “I was wondering if you would do something for me.”

 

“I already promised I would.”  Her fingers brush against his waist as he cleans her thighs of the evidence and result of her desire.

 

“Not that,” he chuckles, leaning down to kiss her lips.  He forces himself to drag his lips from hers before he gets too invested.  It’s so easy to get invested in the slide of her tongue against his.

 

“What is it then?”

 

“When you go to work, I want you to go without panties.”

 

She thinks about it for a moment, finding the idea frighteningly…titillating.  Imagining if people notice that her skirt has no panty lines.  “I’ll be thinking of you all day long and how you know I’m thinking of you.  And knowing that you’re thinking of me, thinking of you.  Wanting you.”

 

His breath catches.  She really is an extraordinary student, a prodigy of sexual submission.  “That’s right,” he nods.  Then, just to be certain they’re communicating clearly with one another, he adds, “You absolutely don’t have to if you don’t want to.  It’s your choice.”

 

“I want to,” she decides.  His grin in response to her decision is like a floodlight of happiness.  How could she ever want to withhold that from him?  Even now her body begins to want him again, her nipples tightening in arousal.  Would she ever have enough of him?  It doesn’t seem possible.  “You have to go,” she reminds him.  “Before they send a tactical team looking for you and find you in my bed.”

 

“I can think of worse ways to die,” he jokes.  He dresses at speed, already tying his bootlaces by the time she responds.

 

“That’s not funny,” she says, soberly.  “I don’t like that joke.”  It’s so easy to remember the day they spent locked in adjoining impenetrable cells by CADMUS, and how he believed it was his time to die and worse…that he didn’t deserve to live.  She didn’t understand what he meant by that, but she plans to find out, preferably before he lets it destroy him.  “No more jokes about you dying.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.  “No more jokes about me dying.  Understood.  Besides, why would I want to when I have so much to look forward to tomorrow?”  His eyebrows waggle on his forehead and he looks so adorably ridiculous she can’t help but giggle. 

 

“Good,” she says.  “Take the front door,” she instructs.  “I’ll lock up after you.  And please get some sleep.”  Mon-El threads the zipper of his jacket and pulls the tab no more than an inch before he’s distracted by the red of her lips.

 

“I promise.”  He steals one more kiss, tipping her chin up to meet him with the tip of his index finger.  Tearing himself away, he gazes into her cornflower blue eyes one last time before steeling himself to leave.  “Who’s my good girl?” he prompts.

 

“I am,” she replies, reaching forward to finish zipping his jacket.

 

“Yes…you are,” he smiles, a genuine and heartfelt expression of affection.  _‘I love you.’_   Mon-El kisses her one kiss, sweet and chaste, but lingering over her lips, loathe to tear himself away.

 

“Hmmmm,” she hums.  “Parting is such—“

 

“—sweet sorrow,” he finishes.  He recalls their tryst together in the DEO gym, when she’d first quoted the words from a famous writer of this world.  Though she had yet to explain the story of their origin, she’d taken to saying the phrase every time they parted ways after making love.  It was a quaint expression, and for them, always accurate.  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers against her lips, before disappearing in a whoosh. 

 

The sound of her front door closing registers in her ears almost at the same time as his farewell.

 

****


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> \--Spot the Earth-38 aberration. See Author’s note at the end.

 

 

Feedback:  Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome.  Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

 

Chapter 2/5

 

_Say, go through the darkest of days_

_Heaven's a heartbreak away_

_Never let you go, never let me down_

_Oh, it's been a hell of a ride_

_Driving the edge of a knife_

_Never let you go, never let me down_

_-DJ Snake/Justin Bieber – ‘Let Me Love You’_

 

 

The raised eyebrow of the front desk guard that swipes his badge, could be interpreted in a number of different ways.  Mon-El prefers to think of it not so much as a next-time-you’re-late-I’m-releasing-the-hounds, as much as it is a sly so-I-see-you’ve-been-in-the-arms-of-a-beautiful-woman-my-good-man.  With his best charming wink, he nods discretely and moves on, tucking his badge back into his wallet, which he slips into his back pocket.

 

He left Kara 26 seconds ago, and he can still feel the tingle of her lips on his.

 

Mon-El decides to check in with J’onn, who apparently has no life, or basic sleep requirements.  As a resident alien and acting head of the DEO, he too has quarters on base, and is thus, usually available.  He finds J’onn, Alex and Winn huddled around a bank of computers at the Command Information Center.  Alex’s head pops up from the huddle and she winks at him.  Why does she keep doing that?

 

“What’s going on?” he wonders, choosing to focus his confusion elsewhere.  He hates to think of something happening that would require Supergirl’s intervention as it would disturb Kara’s sleep.  “Is there something I can do?” he offers in her stead.

 

“We’re just tracking a badly planned bank heist downtown,” Winn announces without taking his eyes off the monitors.  And then, as if the perpetrators can hear him through the device, he waves his arms at the screen, “Motion sensors, you idiots!  Have you even _seen_ Ocean’s Eleven?”

 

“Which the police have handled.”  J’onn extracts himself from the huddle, eye roll clearly implied, but in a stunning show of discipline-in-action, not executed.

 

As Alex walks past her, she leans in and whispers, “I hope you left my sister in better condition than you found her.”

 

Aha!  Winks explained.  Mon-El smiles and retorts, “When you want to know what your sister and I _really_ get up to, you just let me know.”

 

“Eww.”

 

“That’s what I thought.  You really don’t need her for anything?  Because she could really use some sleep.”  The moment the words exited his mouth, he knew they came out all wrong.

 

“No, the police have it covered and again…eww,” Alex replies, this time with a much more pronounced grimace.

 

“That’s not what I—never mind.”

 

“It’s okay,” Alex snickers.  “It was worth it for the look on your face.  So…you start your new job in a few days, right?”  Mon-El startles, checking the immediate area for potential eavesdroppers.

 

“How did you know about that?” he ask, lowering his voice to a softer register. 

 

“As J’onn’s second, he informs me of everything he feels is pertinent.”  The answer should be obvious, since what J’onn knows always trickles down to Alex.

 

“You haven’t told Kara, have you?”

 

“No.  J’onn explained your reasons for wanting to keep it secret.”

 

“It’s just that…if I can make this work, I can get off the stipend, earn myself some freedom and maybe get my own place.  I just don’t want to get her hopes up too soon.  I’m still figuring this place out and sometimes it feels like it gets harder every day.  Except with her.  The parts with her get easier.”

 

“I get it, Mon-El, I really do.  You had a bumpy start and I’m not even talking about the crash landing.  And you want her to think well of you.”

 

Mon-El sighs.  “I want her to look at me and see a man, and not just because—“

 

“If you know what’s good for you, you will _not_ finish that sentence,” she cuts him off.

 

“Because I’m a few decades older than she is,” he redirects, adding a bit of a smirk.

 

“I’m sure the job will be fine, Mon-El.  And any information you may garner while working there could prove useful.”

 

“That was my thinking as well,” he agrees.  Alex and Mon-El share a charged look, an agreement passing between them, spoken only with their eyes.  She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he feels as though, perhaps, her estimation of him has risen a notch.

 

“Have a good night, Mon-El,” she says sincerely, a soft half-smile on her face.

 

“You too, Alex,” he replies.  Mon-El watches briefly as she departs before turning back to one person left in the CIC.

 

“Aw c’mon!  Seriously?!”  Winn shouts at his monitor.

 

“Are the methods used by the criminals not to your liking?” Mon-El queries, a friendly smile lighting his face.  He likes Winn, the brilliant computer specialist that seems able to pull answers out of thin air.  They had bonded upon Mon-El’s arrival to Earth, though Mon-El has used him poorly in the beginning, shamelessly manipulating him in an effort to get out of the DEO for a night.  But after a night of partying with human college students, Mon-El had severely injured one of the revelers, and had begun to understand why the DEO thought it necessary to sequester him.

 

Winn tears his eyes away from the monitor and gives Mon-El a cursory glance.  “Nah,” he replies, “I just can’t stand stupid.  So what’s going on?” he asks, always seeking the quickest way into ‘the loop’.  Winn is the friend that works hard to make sure he isn’t left out – even when being left out is the safest thing for him.  “You’re back late.”

 

“You’re _here_ late,” Mon-El smoothly redirects.  Winn looks at Kara with the kind of softness and yearning in his eyes that puts Mon-El in an unenviable position.  The man is his friend, his first on this planet, but he’s in love with Kara and that makes the situation tricky.  He doesn’t want to lose his friend, but one day he’ll have to explain to Winn why Kara is not the girl for him.  He suspects that day is coming sooner, rather than later.

 

“I’ve got no life, man.  It’s more fun being here than sitting at home…alone.” Winn gripes, as though those are the only options available to him and neither one of them is quite what he wants.

  
“Well, I know for a fact that there are several fine establishments in National City that provide fun and entertainment for single men and women to…what’s the phrase…’hook up’?  Perhaps you should try that.”

 

Winn takes a better, more penetrating look at Mon-El and squints his eyes suspiciously.  He’s noticed that something’s been going on with the Daxamite lately, but hasn’t quite been able to put his finger on it.  Mon-El squirms a bit under his scrutiny. “Is that where you’ve been?  At one of these ‘fine establishments’?  No offense, buddy, but you kinda smell like it.”

 

Mon-El fights the instincts screaming at him to step away from Winn.  Of course, he smells like sweat and sex and Kara, but Winn can’t know that – not the Kara part, at least.  “None taken.”

 

“Got a little money and now it’s burning a hole in your pocket?” Winn teases, blissfully ignorant of the subject upon which he speaks.  In a way, Mon-El feels sorry for him.  “Between you and me…It’s okay, man.  It’s totally healthy, as long as you’re safe.”  He leans toward Mon-El and whispers in a conspiratorial tone, “But be careful.  It violates the terms of your agreement for you to…how shall I put this?  Avail yourself of the ladies of the night…?”

 

“Ladies of the night?” he inquires, tilting his head slightly.  He’s unfamiliar with the designation and his confusion is written clearly across his face.

 

Winn purses his lips and speaks out of the side of his mouth, holding his hand up to block potential lip readers.  “You know...hookers…prostitutes…?  You pay them to have sex with you…?  We talked about this, remember?  It’s illegal.”

 

Prostitution is a foreign concept on Daxam; the notion that anyone having to pay for sex being utterly ludicrous.  “I’m not _paying_ someone for sex,” he blurts out.  Perhaps he reveals a little too much in his exclamation, but he’s unable to let the insult pass, intentional or otherwise.

 

Winn sighs and rolls his eyes.  “Of course _you_ wouldn’t have to, would you?  Though clearly you’re getting it from somewhere.”  Winn chuckles, but Mon-El detects a slight undertone of bitterness in his deduction.  “And I am enough of a man to admit that I’m a little jealous.  Okay, I’m a _lot_ jealous!  I mean…I’ve lived here my whole life and can’t get any action.  None!  You arrive barely two months ago and already you’re spreading yourself thin.”

 

“Perhaps you’d have better luck with women if you cast a wider net,” Mon-El suggests, hinting that he’s aware of Winn’s unrequited passion.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means you seem to have your eyes on only one woman, Winn, when you should be looking all around you.  You’re a good man, with a lot to offer a woman.  You’re smart—brilliant—and you have a good job.  But you have something even more important than all of that.”

 

“Good looks and a Broadway quality singing voice?”  Winn guesses, only half joking.  Though Mon-El isn’t sure which part he’s joking about.

 

“Purpose,” Mon-El provides.  “You’ve found your purpose.  An old friend of mine used to say that a man who knows his purpose is more attractive to a mate than any with merely a charming smile.”

 

“Let me guess…he was talking about you.”

 

Mon-El glances over Winn’s shoulder and sees Ral there, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed, a smug smirk on his angelic face.  “Yes he was, and I did everything I could think of to prove him wrong.”

 

To Winn, it appears that the alien is simply remembering old times gone by.  “And did you?  Prove him wrong?”

 

Mon-El’s fingers touch his lips, the barest tingle from Kara’s kiss still remaining.  “I never could…so he must have been right.”

 

“That must sting a little,” Winn commiserates.

 

“You have no idea.”  Mon-El’s heart thuds with a pang, thinking of Ral and how he never got meet Kara or get to know her, except in the illusion of his own fragmented mind.  “Hey…there was something I wanted to ask you about,” Mon-El redirects.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“What can you tell me about some Earth writings called ‘Romeo and Juliet’?”  Winn was to go-to person around here to ask about these things.  He seems to have an endless knowledge of pop culture and entertainment.  Probably because he spends his time absorbing it, rather than out in the world wooing women and availing himself of all they have to offer.

 

Winn rubs his thumb and his forefinger together, his eyes squinting with the suspicion again.  “Interesting,” he purrs.  “It’s an old play written hundreds of years ago by a guy named—“

 

“William Shakespeare,” Mon-El fills in.  “That much I know.  Where can I get a copy?”

 

“You want to _read_ it?  Are you crazy?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, first of all it’s written in an antiquated form of English and I had to explain to you what ‘off the top of your head’ meant the other day.  Also, it’s written in iambic pentameter, which is a kind verse…a poem.”

 

“So…it’s difficult to understand,” he surmises.  Perhaps he could at least understand some of it.

 

“That’s the long and short of it,” Winn says.  Then he reconsiders his phrasing, as he often does with Mon-El.  “Very difficult to understand for the untrained ear.”

 

“Perhaps I can learn this language,” he suggests.  “I’ve learned many languages.”

 

Winn guffaws.  “Yeah, thanks to 35 years in a status pod loaded with language programs.”

 

Winn employs a logic Mon-El finds difficult refute.  He opens his mouth to try, but then slams it shut again.

 

But then Winn’s eyes light up as an idea occurs to him.  He spins in his chair and sidles up to his keyboard.  “But you can watch the movie!  The performance is easier to understand than reading it from the page – ask any sophomore in high school. “

 

“Ah!” Mon-El lights up.  “A movie.  I didn’t know about a movie.” He enjoys a good movie when he can’t sleep.  “And it’s the same story?”

 

“Exactly.  Now, there’s the classic Franco Zefferelli version from the 70’s – it’s a little dated, but true the original source material in terms of time period and costuming. But the Baz Luhrman version….” Winn scratches his, as though considering something of intergalactic import.  “The Powers-That-Be might not approve of you watching that one.  The guns make it _seem_ more violent.”

 

“Why are they afraid of me watching movies with guns?” Mon-El wonders.  “I hate guns; guns are bad.  They can hurt me.”

 

“True,” Winn agrees, as though the thought had never occurred to him.

 

“That would be like a horror movie for me.”

 

“You like horror movies.”  It was true.  Last week when he requested something other than rom-coms and sad movies where lovers are separated by death (he’s _still_ not over A Walk to Remember!) Mon-El requested a change in viewing choices.  Winn suggested he try a good horror flick, and it was agreed this would be okay…as long as said horror did not arise from alien invasions of any kind.  His first horror film was called ‘The Ring’ and if, before seeing the movie, he had entertained even the simplest thought of sleeping that night, finishing the film at put that thought to rest.  “It’s a more modern version,” Winn continues.  “And stars Leo DiCaprio and Clare Danes.”

 

“I’ve heard good things about this DiCaprio person and his many fine performances...that have never won him the attentions of someone named Oscar.”

 

“You are watching too much TMZ,” Winn comments, shaking his head.  “And yes, he’s possibly the greatest actor of his generation; it’s a travesty that he’s never won an Oscar.  It’s going to happen though, I can feel it.  I’ve heard he’s playing H.H. Holmes next – maybe this will be the one!”

 

“If he’s that good, I’ll watch his version then.”

 

“Good call.”  With a handful of keystrokes, he brings up a list on his computer and types in some search parameter.  “Excellent,” he says.  “That one’s available.”  Winn decisively types something more onto his computer before spinning back around in his chair to face Mon-El.  “There.  I’ve added it to your queue.”

 

“Thanks, Winn.”

 

“No problem.”  Mon-El turns to head back to his room, before Win stops him.  “Hey, just in case you’re wondering….”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’ve been working on some suit ideas for you.  I know you said that wasn’t your thing, but you did help Supergirl at that hospital the other day.   So…so I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up some plans.  They’re really basic right now…if you want to take a look.”

 

“But there’s the small problem of my vulnerability to lead, and the copious amounts of it the criminals of this planet use,” he points out.

 

“Kevlar!” Winn answers.

 

“Kevlar?”

 

“Kord Industries has been developing a new ultra-fine Kevlar that we can license.  It can be dyed and woven into a suit, and it’s ten times more shock resistant than standard Kevlar.  No bullets shot at you will make it past the suit.  I can guarantee it.  Oh!  It’s also fire rated to 1500 hundred degrees Fahrenheit for up to twenty minutes.”  Winn has that look on his face like he’s begging Mon-El to give him a green light, but he’s not sure he’s ready to do that.  Can he learn _two_ new jobs at once?

 

“I’ll think about it,” he tells him.  Winn’s face falls a little, his excitement seeping out of him.  “I’m not saying ‘no’,” Mon-El qualifies.  “It’s just a lot to consider.  I mean, I couldn’t save my own world, what makes you think I can help save this one?”  He catches sight of Ral again, but this time his friend’s expression is both stern and sad.  “And let’s not forget how Kara was when Guardian arrived on the scene….”

 

“Jealous,” they both say at once, and then laugh together.

 

“She is _not_ good with competition,” Mon-El laughs, knowing it’s just an excuse.

 

“I’m sure you’d be different though,” Winn says.  “She…knows you.  She believes in you.”

 

“Maybe,” Mon-El says, using a carefully measured tone that committed him to nothing.  “I think I’m going to turn in.  You should as well before you even forget you have a home.  I _have_ to stay here,” Mon-El reminds him.  “At least you have somewhere to go.”

 

“I’ll do that.  Why ‘Romeo and Juliet’?” Winn asks, curiosity getting the better of him, before Mon-El can make his escape.

 

“It’s just something Kara keeps mentioning, but there’s never time for her to explain.  So, I thought I’d figure it out myself.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Oh,” Winn says, with a shrug, watching Mon-El walk across the room and turn down the corridor toward his quarters.  He collapses back into his seat, the chair gently rocking with the force of his weight.  He asked his question and got his answer, but somehow his curiosity is not assuaged.  Why would she keep bringing up and ‘Romeo and Juliet’?  And why was there never time to explain it? 

 

Winn Schott is extraordinarily good at puzzles, always has been, and he’s not so bad at making intuitive leaps either.  Which is why it takes less than a minute for the pieces to fall into place.   He slinks further into his chair and wonders if he can get himself drunk before the nearest bar closes in an hour and a half.

 

He’s just figured out who Mon-El is having sex with.

 

****

 

Two hours after leaving Winn in the CIC, Mon-El is watching the credits roll across the screen of his television, internally debating whether or not to throw the remote control at the device.  Is this how she sees their relationship?  Doomed?

 

“It started out so well!” Ral consoles him.  “The Capulets, with their smug, ultra-judgmental ways were clearly the Kryptonians in this scenario, and the Montagues with their fondness for rabblerousing...well I think we know who their analog was.”

 

“I understood the comparison.”

 

“Two teenagers, children really, falling desperately in love despite the longstanding feud between their families, truly a beautiful notion—but then they get married and it all goes to hell.  Yes, this _does_ sound familiar.”

 

“They end up dead,” Mon-El adds.  “Stupidly dead.  And why?  Because of a failure to communicate.  Not even something worthy.”

 

“That’s teenagers for you,” Ral shrugs, as if he knows something Mon-El doesn’t.   “Perhaps she’s trying to say, in her own shy way, that she’s falling desperately in love with you,” Ral suggest, hopefully.

 

“Or stupidly.”

 

“To be fair, death does seem to be a worrying trend in the romantic stories of this world.  Unless the characters are animated, for some reason.  And hold royal titles.  Perhaps we shouldn’t be taking it this quite so seriously.”

 

“They’ve made many versions of _this_ story,” Mon-El argues.  “And it’s a story still told centuries after it was written.  This must be what they truly think of love; what she thinks of it.”

 

“That love is worth dying for.”

 

“Of course _you_ would see it that way…the man who died in the arms of the woman he loved.”

 

“Exactly where I wanted to be.”

 

“It’s not a love story, Ral, don’t you get it?  It’s a cautionary tale.  Meant to steer people _away_ from love.”  Mon-El tosses the remote control down and climbs off of his cot.

 

Ral smiles, a grin spreading across his face the way spilled molasses spreads across a table.  “If we’d seen this story on Daxam you would have said, ‘Aha! A reason to _not_ fall in love!’”

 

“Your point being?”

 

“The only reason this upsets you is because you _care_.  You love.  And the story doesn’t fit into the narrative you want for your own romance.”

 

“But who says it isn’t right?” Mon-El doubts.  “On its deepest level, it’s no different than the story of Gata and Trel-Gand.”

 

“That is _not_ what happened with Gata and Trel and you know it!”  Ral defends the long-ago lovers vehemently, his mouth turning downward in a stark frown, the tips of his ears turning pink.  “You’re the one who found the letter.”

 

Mon-El nods in confirmation.  “For all the good it did them.  Or me.”

 

 After a moment of silence, Ral sighs and emits a loud gulp like…turning a page.  “You’ll find a way to make it work.”

 

“How can you be sure?”

 

“Because you must.  Because you’re all that’s left now.”

 

“Thanks for the added pressure.”

 

“Applied pressure,” Ral snorts indelicately.  “It’s the only thing that ever worked with you.  Your father taught me that.”

 

“My father,” Mon-El scoffs at the word, sickened by it.  His father was always a sore subject between the two of them, each taking a side.  “It figures.”

 

“Find the weak spot and press.  He was very good at weak spots.”

 

“Yes…he was.  Why do you think I hated him so much?”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

  
“Yes, I do.”

 

“Then why do you feel so guilty?”  Mon-El opens his mouth to speak and Ral holds up a hand to stall him.  “Don’t deny it.  I’m inside your head, remember?  You didn’t hate him.  You were everything that was good about him…for all you tried to behave otherwise.”  Ral’s head falls back, his hands falling to his hips.  “Gods of Val-Or, we have so much work to do.  You were always so stubborn and willful, but now you’re just being difficult.  I _can_ make this painful, if you prefer.”

 

Ral disappears, his form morphing into something new—some _one_ new.  A woman stands before him now in a flowing gown of pink and blue, the floor of forget-me-nots, a wide necklace of jewels draped around her neck.  She’s holding a bouquet of revelius buds in one hand.  She is young and beautiful, but for the river of blood gushing down her face, stemming from the open wound in her scalp.

 

“Why?” she asks, her voice choked with tears.

 

“You’re not real,” Mon-El rasps.  “You’re not real,” His throat closes with emotion.  Mon-El squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the heels of his palms against them until they feel as though they’re going to press into his traitorous brain.  “Please go away,” he begs.

 

“See…?” Ral returns, the woman morphing away.  “Painful is always an option.”

 

“I thought you were here to help me.”

 

“I am,” Ral assures.  “I helped you get your lovely Kara; who, by her own beguiling admission, is now yours.  But I only did that because you’re going to need her.”

 

“When?”

 

“When you break.”

 

“I won’t….”he begins, a denial rooted in tenacity and resolve.  But then his resolve crumbles as fear creeps in.  “I won’t…survive it.”

 

“You will, brother,” Ral promises.  “And when you come through it…you’ll be stronger than ever.  But you need to stop pushing it away and let it come.  You’ll never be what she truly needs until you do.”

 

Mon-El’s guard lowered, he yawns deeply, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him.  For a moment, he considers getting some sleep, but remembering the face he wants so desperately to forget, he’s certain his nightmares of loss and destruction will continue unabated.  He only sleeps about two nights a week now, and on those nights, his rest is fitful and plagued with his last images of Daxam, of her and of Ral and so many faces he doesn’t wish to name.  Images he can’t shut out, no matter how hard he tries.

 

He rubs his bleary eyes with his fingers and plots his next move.  Two buildings over there sits a sweet 250kV transformer from which, if he’s careful, he can siphon enough electricity to keep himself awake and alert for another twelve hours—eighteen if he’s lucky.  Mon-El reaches into his footlocker, retrieves a black hoodie and slips it on, zipping it up as far as it will go.  Nobody looks twice at a guy wearing black around this place.

 

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” Ral questions, rolling his eyes in frustration.  He’s taken to lounging on Mon-El’s cot now, legs hanging half of the mattress, his fingers laced together.  “It’s like a drug, my friend; the high is always followed by a crash.  One day you’ll crash and then I’ll have you.  It’s only a matter of time, and I’ve got nothing but an endless supply of it.”

 

“That’s not true.”  Mon-El contradicts him, pointing out what they both already know – that Ral only has exactly the same amount of time as Mon-El.

 

Ral’s confident smile slips.  “No…it’s not.  But unlike you, I _never_ get tired.”

 

Mon-El sneers at this friend and sticks his head out of door to see if the coast is clear.

 

“The things they said about you…I never cared for a single moment.” Ral adds, before Mon-El can slip away.  “You know that, right?  You were just my friend, and my brother-in-bond; none of that other stuff mattered.”

 

“You mean what he did to me?”

 

“What he did to you?!” Ral asks, sitting up sharply.  “Gods, brother!  What he _did_ to you?  You do realize if he hadn’t done what he did, you wouldn’t be here right now.  You still can’t see that, can you?”

 

“Maybe that would be have been for the best.”

 

“Best for whom?”  Ral wonders.  “I wonder what Kara would have to say about that.  Hey, I know…let’s ask her!  What was it you were saying about…what was it again?  Failure to communicate?”

 

With that heavy thought to ponder, Mon-El slips out of the door into the corridor.  The DEO is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, but it does run on a skeleton crew during the wee hours of the morning.  It will be at least another three hours before the next shift starts pouring in.

 

The door to the roof is just one flight up, which is skips by leaping up and over the railing and then out the door.  There’s a rock near the door he uses to prop it open so that he can get back inside later.

 

He follows their rules to the spirit and the letter – most of the time.  But as it gets harder and harder to keep the memories at bay, and his body begs for sleep; he can’t stay here lounging in his windowless room.  The walls close in around him and it’s like that sinking, drowning sensation he felt dropping into stasis, never knowing if or _when_ he’d ever wake up.

 

With three long steps and a push, he’s leaping up and over the building next door, clearing the distance with ease.  His body soars, light as a feather, and glancing down at the streets below he wishes he could stay above it all, like he knows Kara sometimes does.  When gravity finally takes hold, the descent is considerably slower than terminal velocity and he lands on the roof of the high rise beyond with barely a thud, stepping out of the leap like a skydiver coming in for an easy landing.

 

He’d been told that while he slept, fighting off the effects of stasis, his body used the medical equipment leads to siphon electricity from the building in an attempt to jumpstart his comatose brain.  That was what gave him the idea initially; to use electricity to give his body a jolt of energy.  Of course, the first time he’d attempted to test his theory had been an unqualified disaster.  He got the jolt he needed, but a three block radius had gone without power for two days – in the middle of the week.  Slowly, he is learning to control the influx of electricity and how to shut it off when he has just enough.

 

Mon-El removes the panel behind which the transformer core sits.  Placing his hands on the exposed primary and secondary conductor coils, he feels the shock instantly.  Electricity always looks for the path of least resistance, and interrupting its flow causes the stream of power to jump to his body, racing from one hand, through his body and out the other, juicing his cells as it travels.  It hurts a bit at first, but then a buzzing sensation moves through him, raising every hair on his body, and it feels good, like a high.  Shutting it down, unlocking his grip from the conductors, is the more difficult task, because he has to remove them simultaneously so that the electricity can resume its coil-to-coil connection.

 

Once disconnected, he replaces the main core panel.  With a little luck no one will ever notice he just borrowed a few kVs for a top up, but now he can feel his blood rushing through his veins, and his heart pumping full out.  He needs to burn off some of it to level out.  He considers heading back to Kara’s place and surprising her with a special morning wake up call, but thinks better of it.  Explaining why he’s not still tucked away in his cot at the DEO would likely not go over well in the eyes of his favorite goody-two-shoes.

 

Mon-El has just about settled on practicing his leaping to see how high he can go, when the sound of screeching tires followed by a booming crash assaults his ears.  Automatically, he focuses in on the direction, pinpointing its location as the Otto Binder Bridge, two miles to the west.

 

Tightening his focus, he listens to gather more information, hearing heavy breathing and the sound of panic.  A rustling he can’t identify, and the sound of metal screeching against metal mix together.

 

“Oh, God,” a woman’s voice weeps quietly.  Her voice is slurred, as if she’s been drinking, or has taken a hit to the head and is disoriented.  “Bobby wake up, please wake up!”

 

He hears a repeated beeping noise followed by a tinny voice saying, “911.  What is your emergency?”

 

“Please send help.”  Despite her cries she exhibits a remarkable but forced calm, as if trying to convince a riled snake not to strike.  “Otto Binder Bridge.  Our car hit the rail.  It’s about to go over the edge.”  Another long, painful groaning sound comes from the car.

 

He has to do something.  Rescue will never make it in time.  Already he can hear the sound of rending, screaming metal as the car tilts too far in the wrong direction, and the woman praying for her life.  Without telling his body what to do, he’s in the air, leaping with every ounce of his strength. 

 

He hits the roof of a building three streets away, and transitions straight into another running leap.  Two more successive leaps and he comes to a landing at the end of the bridge.  Already, other early morning travelers have stopped to render what little assistance they can.  Two men have placed their bodyweight on the vehicle’s trunk, but neither can extract the passengers without the car toppling over the side.  It’s a 200 foot drop to the water below.

 

Mon-El flips the hood of jacket over his head, and pulls the drawstring just tight enough to keep the disguise in place.  He takes the rest of the distance to the car at speed, the men at the back of the car, too busy trying to keep the car from falling, fail to notice his arrival.

 

The car tips further, the two men losing contact with the ground, their own lives now in imminent danger.

 

“Step aside,” Mon-El commands.

 

“Are you crazy?  It will fall!” one man, dressed in a custodian jumpsuit, shouts.

 

“Yeah, man…help us!” the other man begs.  He’s wearing a suit and tie, minus the jacket.  The tie is knotted all the way up to his neck.  On his way _to_ work then, not on his way home.

 

“I will,” Mon-El says, “but I need you to move before you’re injured.”

 

The two men look at each other, trying to decide if they should just let go – if they can live with the consequences if they do.  “No way, man,” the custodian decides first.

 

“Fine,” Mon-El decides.  “When I tell you to let go…let go.”  Approaching the side of the car, he reaches his hand into the broken passenger’s side window and places a hand on the woman’s shoulder.  “Are you injured?”

 

“My h-husband’s unconscious,” she replies.  “And I think m-my arm is broken.”

 

“Stay calm,” he tells her.  “Medical assistance is on the way.”  Still a full minute out, judging from the distance of the sirens.  “We can’t wait for help,” he says.  “Something’s about to happen in a moment.  Try not to panic.”

 

The metal screams again, the vehicle now tilted at a near 45 degree angle.  “Oh, please help us,” she prays, though it’s unclear who is meant to be the recipient of her prayer, him or a god she worships.

 

Mon-El squats down and places his hands under the car, getting a tight grip on the chassis.  “Gentlemen, I have it now,” he informs the men clinging the car’s trunk.  Just a little more tilt towards the water, and the combined body weight of the men assisting could turn into the straw that breaks the camel back.  And they’ve just begun to see the truth of it.  “Let go of the car and get clear.”

 

He feels the weight distribution change as he hears their boots hit the ground, feels the car list and hears the woman scream.  He struggles for a moment with the car’s forward momentum, feels the car fighting him as his muscles strain to reverse its momentum altogether.  For a second, his heart stutters and he fears he won’t be able to save their lives.  Perhaps he should have added his strength to that of the others after all, until the professionals arrived. 

 

But finally, he wrangles the car into submission, and he’s able to lift it clear off the ground and drag it back from the edge.  After clearing the damaged railing and the bridge’s shoulder lane, he sets the car and its passengers down a safe distance from the gaping hole that nearly took their lives, just as a host of sirens turns the corner up ahead.

 

The men who rendered assistance gape at him, wondering who he is and where he comes from.   Is he Superman?

 

“I’m not Superman,” he replies, without looking at them.  He keeps his face lowered to avoid being recognized, or remembered.

 

The car door opens with a screech of complaint and the woman climbs out of the car.  “You saved us,” she weeps.  “My husband fell asleep at the wheel and when I startled him, he lost control.”

 

“Look at you, brother,” Ral crows.  He’s there with him now, buzzing with Mon-El’s stolen energy.  “Stepping up.” 

 

“How can I ever thank you?” she queries.  The ambulance and firetruck arrive, turning their vehicles sideways and taking up all lanes of traffic, the responders rushing to unload their equipment almost before the vehicles come to a complete stop. 

 

Mon-El, keeping his face turned away from the injured woman, shakes his head.  “That’s not necessary.”  The firefighters seem a bit nonplussed to realize that their services are no longer required.

 

“Are you like _her_?” she asks, leaning heavily against the car.  “Are you like Supergirl?”

 

“You know who would be proud of you right now?” Ral asks, laughing, jumping around him.  “I would!  I would be so proud of you if I could see you now.”

 

“She’s much better at this than I am,” he tells the woman.  “I was just nearby and heard the crash.”  Tilting his head he indicates the paramedics gathering a backboard and their bags of first aid necessities.  “I think you’ll be okay now.”

 

“What’s your name?” she asks before he can walk away.  “What should we call you?”

 

“Gods of Val-Or!  That was amazing, brother!  We have _got_ to do that again!  Let’s go find someone else that needs saving.”

 

Mon-El stands completely and utterly still as the hallucination of his dead brother-in-bond dances all around him, high on _his_ stolen juice.  He doesn’t remember ever in his life being this still.  There is…was…a belief on Daxam that the world would stop for a person when they experience a moment of clarity, a moment of epiphany.  These were the times when a person makes a choice—a life decision—that cannot be reversed.  Everything slows down, stops, as if the universe is giving them a little extra time to choose, a little more time to be certain.  Making this decision will set him on a new, unstoppable journey.  Mon-El stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

 

“Valor,” he decides, as he walks away from the growing crowd of people and the preponderance of flashing lights.  “You can call me Valor.”

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: On Earth-38 Leo DiCaprio has yet to win an Oscar. Leo turned down The Revenant because he hates the snow and so the role went to Keanu Reeves instead (who’s always up for a little experimental film making) so the statue went home with him instead.
> 
> Sorry Leo -- Best of luck on “Devil in the White City”.
> 
> My headcanon.....


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> Thought I would wait and post this tomorrow, but then I thought...’who wants to read fic on Monday night?’ So here you go!
> 
> Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze

Chapter 3/5

 

_Something about you, it’s like an addiction_

_Hit me with your best shot honey_

_I’ve got no reason to doubt you, but certain things hurt_

_And you’re my only virtue_

_And I’m virtually yours._

  _\--James Arthur – “Certain Things”_

 

 

She’s up with the birds.  She sings in the shower.  She dances across her bedroom floor towards her closet where she picks out a faux-wrap pink blouse and pairs it with a black and pink floral skirt.  It’s short and full and flowy – and a little bit dangerous. Opening the lingerie drawer of her wardrobe chest she removes a matching bra and panty set.  Remembering her promise to Mon-El, she smiles and drops the black panties back into the drawer while her belly performs a series of high dives.

Today, her suit would be tucked conveniently away in a duffle bag and carried with her to work just in case of a crisis, the amount of time needed to change into it negligible in terms of super speed.  She learned that from Barry, who rarely wore his suit under his clothes, instead returning to StarLabs to change when called upon.  And she was _at least_ as fast as Barry. 

Okay – _almost_ as fast.  Which is why the suit would never be far from her. 

Dressing at speed, she’s slipping into her black heels a second later and smoothing down her skirt.  Her glasses are on, her hair is in a perfectly coiffed up-do, light make-up is neatly applied, and in the mirror she appears every inch the prim and proper cub reporter, Kara Danvers.  But that’s not who she is anymore…not completely.  Part of her feels like today she’s taking on a third, separate identity and this one she’s creating on her own terms.  She has a secret, and it’s not the kind that shakes a city to the core; it’s the kind that shakes _her_ to core.  The sensation of the freedom she feels beneath her skirt is like the freedom he gives her—to know it is okay, if not healthy, to surrender control from time to time. 

In the living room she turns on the television to receive a shot of news along with her first hit of morning caffeine.  As usual, there is a story already in progress.  A split screen shows the morning anchor, Gage Carson, at this his desk holding a hand up to his earpiece, while a female reporter appears on the opposite side, apparently at the scene of an early morning accident on the Otto Binder Bridge.  Though young, perhaps only a few years older than Kara, the reporter exudes the assertive confidence of a professional, smartly dressed in a burgundy suit with a navy blue overcoat and matching leather gloves.  One hand holds a microphone, and the other presses to an earpiece like Carson’s; her straight, dark hair stubbornly defies the wishes of the early, morning late December winds coming off the bay. 

Across the bottom of the screen the disturbing, flashing crawl of breaking news reads, “New Superman in Town?”

* * *

 

_“CityWorks tells us that the inbound lanes of the bridge_ will _be closed for the rest of the day while crews work to restore and strengthen the damaged guardrail.  Commuters are being asked at this time to re-route through the Queensgate Tunnel. As you might expect, Gage, this will make traffic a hairy situation for many Nationalites for the rest of the day.”  
_

_“What more have you learned about the accident that caused the bridge closure, Julie?” Carson asks.  
_

_“Well, Gage…witnesses at the scene reported that the car and its passengers would not have survived the crash through the guardrail were it not for the sudden intervention of this previously unknown superhero.  One of the vehicle’s passengers, a Mrs. Hailey Hardwick, claims that she spoke briefly with her rescuer and adamantly claims that his initial interaction with her was ‘caring’ and ‘calming’, though he took pains to hide his face.”  
_

_“Was she able to provide any kind of a physical description?”  
_

_“Yes, Gage,” she replies, glancing down at her reporter pad to read from the description.  “She described this person as approximately six feet tall, mid-to-late twenties, well-built but not overly muscular, dressed in street clothes, wearing a black hoodie, and she thinks he may have had dark hair.”  
_

_“You mentioned at the top of the story that eyewitnesses claimed at first they believed it might possible be a visiting Superman, caught out of uniform….”  
_

_“Though they all make the same claim of witnessing Superman-like strength, the hero himself refuted that title.  And when Mrs. Hardwick asked what she should call him, he indicated that she could call him ‘Valor’.”  
_

_“’Valor’,” Carson echoes, turning his attention to the camera in front of him and addressing the populace.  “Well it appears that National City has another hero in its midst.  Whether of alien origin or an emerging meta-human…we have yet to determine.  At this time, we can only hope that his chosen moniker accurately reflects the behavior he wishes to display, but for now, all we can say is…it seems he’s off to a good start.  Julie, any final thoughts?  I’m sure those who are hearing your report are not looking forward to the drive in.”  
_

_“Public transportation is recommended wherever possible today.  This is Julie Greer reporting to you from the Otto Binder Bridge for KNCN news.  Back to you in the studio, Gage.”  
_

_“Thank you, Julie.  Stayed tuned…we’ll have more on this story as it develops,” he promises the audience.  
_

Kara collapses on the couch halfway through the report, her knees wobbly, and morning cup of coffee forgotten.  Superman-like powers?   _Which_ Superman like powers?  The news report was frustratingly unclear on this point, other than reporting a display of super strength. 

She listens intently, though slightly shell-shocked from the news.  While she had been sleeping, a new hero had risen – one that appears to be super powered.   This is could be bad, especially if this new super remains unchecked. 

Or ends up being better at this than she is…. 

“Valor,” she whispers.  It sounds so familiar, the word tickling something in the back of her brain.  The problem is that it’s not exactly a word people throw around in everyday conversation anymore, unless one is discussing military outcomes and medals awarded.  But it feels like she’s heard it recently somewhere. 

Typically she speeds to work in the mornings to get a jump on the other reporters who’ve already earned Snapper Carr’s favor, but this morning she decides to walk at normal speed, her duffel and purse thrown over her shoulder.  It’s December in National City, Christmas is a week away, and it is a nippy fifty-two degrees outside.  For the normally temperate city, the temperatures don’t usually get this low until at least February, so the other commuters are bundled up in coats like they’re expecting a Great Norther to roll in any minute. 

Kara, on the other hand, unaffected by externally applied extreme temperatures (not that 52 degrees can even be considered extreme), wears only a light coat for appearances over her blouse and short skirt.  She chose the skirt for the thick weightiness of its fabric, it’s unlikeliness to blow up in the event of a sudden gust.

 Walking down the street, she feels like the center of attention.  As though everyone can tell, just by looking at her, that she isn’t wearing any panties.  Is Mon-El thinking of her right now, wondering how she’s feeling – if she’s feeling exposed?  Kara stops in her favorite coffee shop a block from CatCo and waits in line for her mocha.  Around her everyone seems to be talking about this new superhero, hearing the name over and over in multiple conversations. 

“What kind of name is that anyway…Val-or?” a man asks the woman next to him in line, as Kara waited for her name to be called by the barista. 

And that’s when she realizes exactly where she’s heard the name before.  Three nights ago, when she was slowly stripping off her clothes for him while he enjoyed the show. 

_“Gods of Val-Or!” he’d said, rubbing the hard ridge in the crotch of his pants, as her panties slid down her legs.  “You are the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.”_

“Gods of Val-Or,” she exclaimed aloud, the memory slamming into her.  Immediately sorry for her outburst, Kara casts a quick glance around to make certain no one heart her.  One man nearby turned on her a single eyebrow raised in interest. Averting her eyes and pressing her glasses tighter to the bridge of her noise, she shakes her head. “N-nothing…never mind.  It was n-nothing,” she stutters.  She’d seen that tactic work for Clark, and decides to give it a try. Sure enough, the man turns away as if he’d never seen her in the first place. 

“Mon-El,” Kara realizes, the knowledge sweeping over her.  Mon-El is ‘Valor’.  He has to be, because nothing else make sense.  Her heart flutters like the wings of a bird, as though trying to alight from her chest and soar away.  Soar to him.  He did something heroic, and it wasn’t because she was there to witness it, or because he expected to receive credit for it.  In a million years, who would ever connect him to the name ‘Valor’? Except for her, and only then because he had a penchant for invoking the Daxamite Gods of Val-Or during moments of intimacy. 

But what does this mean?  Has he chosen a life of heroism?  She must talk to him and discover the truth about what happened on that bridge last night. How did he know the passengers in that car needed help?  How had he been near enough to help them in time? 

“Danvers?” the barista calls, his tone bored.  Kara steps forward to take the cup from the youth’s hand and weaves her way through the morning coffee crowd, its number already swelling to include the line that spills out of the door.  She squeezes past the line, escaping onto the sidewalk only to be swept up in the throng of swiftly moving foot traffic. 

Why was he out of the DEO after curfew, when he should have been checked into the building and sleeping soundly on the cot in his quarters?  Why hadn’t he been sleeping soundly on the cot in his quarters? What had driven him into the night, miles from the DEO? 

Anxiety wells up inside of her, born of a desire to see him, to touch him, to speak with him.  If J’onn or Alex put the pieces together, or even take the intuitive leap that he’s Valor, then even she might not be able to save him from the reprisals.  They could put him in a cage, taking away the freedoms that he already has.  They’ll have to figure it out, together, how to keep this from happening.  It would kill her to see him in a cage; not to mention the damage it could do to Mon-El’s already delicate psyche.   

When Kara was new to this planet, still struggling to accept the loss of her homeworld and everyone she loved; being made to feel a part of something had been the key that kept her from shattering into pieces.  The Danvers family, Midvale Junior High (as terrifying as it was), and even the Kent family, had all been tent poles holding the pain and grief above her head.  Each played a part in ensuring that Kara felt safe and protected; like she belonged. Take that away from Mon-El and he could be crushed beneath the weight of his loss. 

Her instinct is to go to him, to seek him out and gain a better understanding of what’s driving him to clandestinely break the rules he’s promised to obey.  But she knows that could drive him deeper away. She must wait.

 He will come to her, and odds are it will be sooner, rather than later.  Even now, he’s thinking of her thinking of him, and when he can no longer stand the anticipation, he will seek her out.  She will give him what he promised and then she will tell him what she knows and then hopefully, he will trust her with the truth. 

Predictably, the office is abuzz with activity by the time she arrives.  James Olsen stands in his office, arms crossed, and his back to the door, watching the myriad television screens that make up the wall behind his desk.  He must catch a glimpse of her reflection as she walks in, because he speaks without turning around. 

“I’ve already received three calls from Cat this morning,” he announces.  “She’s pretty riled up?” 

All the crawls on the screen are now touting the arrival of ‘Valor’.  “Because she didn’t get to name him?” Kara asks. 

“Because she didn’t get to name him,” James confirms.  He tears his attention away from the screen and approaches her.  “And because she insists we get the exclusive with this ‘Valor’.  Who is this guy?” he asks.  His voice lowers, since the question is directed at Supergirl and not his employee, Kara Danvers. 

She says nothing, but provides a non-committal shrug, not wishing to outright lie to him. 

“We’ve got to get something on this guy.  Where did he come from?  What does he want?” 

“Maybe he just wants to help,” she supplies.  “Like he did last night.  Maybe he just saw someone in distress and decided to do something about it.  He was wearing a hoodie, James, he obviously isn’t prepared to be the center of attention.  He wouldn’t let anyone see his face.” 

“That alone I find concerning.” 

“Wait a minute?” she begins, pressing her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose. “Last month you were _all_ about Guardian and that guy wears a mask _I_ can’t even see through.” 

“Guardian doesn’t have super powers,” James argues. 

“That we know about,” she qualifies.  “He’s been strangely difficult for the DEO to pin down.  And besides, that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of abusing the power he _does_ have.  Not to mention it took 3.5 seconds for someone to start framing him for _their_ crimes.  Which makes him a vulnerable good guy, and there’s nothing more dangerous than a vulnerable good guy.” 

James opens his mouth to debate the point and then closes it as though unable to provide a single rebuttal. 

“Can you imagine what CADMUS might have tried to force me to do to keep Mon-El alive if Jeremiah hadn’t helped us escape?” 

“I hadn’t thought about that,” James says softly, reflectively, a probing look in his eyes. 

“Or anyone,” she covers.  “It could have been anyone.  Alex or you or Winn.  Could’ve been anyone.  It could have been bad, James.  I can’t afford to be caught unawares like that again.” 

“So it might be good to have another powered superhero in your corner to take some of the pressure off you.” 

Momentarily affronted, Kara stiffens.  “I’m fine,” she insists, raising her chin a notch.  “There’s no pressure.”  She takes a step toward James, crosses her arms, her eyes squinting, her forehead crinkling.  “Why? Does it seem like there’s pressure?” 

“I meant take some of the heat off,” he awkwardly chuckles.  “Maybe with another powered superhero around, CADMUS might think twice about coming after you.” 

“Or it might make them step up their efforts.”  Kara sighs, disturbed by her own insight.  “We really need to get Jeremiah back.  We need to know what he knows.” 

“There’s been nothing new?” he asks, sympathetically. 

“Nothing. And it’s driving Alex crazy.  She even has Maggie reaching out to her contacts. But so far….” Kara shakes her head. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sure eventually someone will turn over whatever rock CADMUS is hiding under.” 

“Yeah, it’s the ‘eventually’ part I’m worried about.” 

“Kara? Do you think there’s any way you can find out who this ‘Valor’ is?” James asks, switching subjects. 

“Why?” she inquires, suspiciously. 

“Because you’re…you…you might have an advantage in tracking this guy down?” 

“To do what?” 

“To get the interview, Kara!” he laughs. 

“Oh…oh! You want _me_ to interview him?” 

“I think that’s what I just said,” he says, placing his hands on his hips.  James rolls his eyes up, as though reviewing the conversation mentally.  “Yeah, that’s what I said.   _If_ you can catch him?” 

Kara smiles, a secret smile.  She changes her stance, cocking her hip to one side and crossing one ankle over another; the heat between her legs that’s been on a steady simmer since getting dressed this morning rockets up a few notches.  She knows just how to _catch_ him.  Convincing him to comply, on the other hand, may take some work.  Some very _hard_ work.  She balks though, for a moment.  Is it right to use her connection to Valor to further her own career?  Internally she asks herself a question she’s found both guiding and calming in the past. 

What would Lois Lane do? 

“Snapper won’t like it…” she probes, after receiving the answer to her internal query. 

“You let me deal with Snapper.  I mean…he already thinks you know Supergirl, right?” 

“Right,” she replies.  “Supergirl was my source on the underground alien fight club story.”  Kara tosses some air quotes at the use of the word source. It occurs to her then, the other benefit of being assigned the Valor interview.  If not her, someone else would be assigned to the story and that could be disastrous – especially if, by some miracle, they got close to the truth.  With Kara spearheading the search for Valor, she buys them both the time to figure this thing out, and then control the story so that it breaks in just right way, allowing them to govern the information that leaks to the public.  It’s the perfect opportunity to employ some damage control. 

Even without knowing it, James Olsen handed her the solution to a big part of her problem. “Thanks, James,” she says, huge grin breaking across her face.  “I promise I won’t let you down.” 

“You’d better not,” he warns, good-naturedly.  “I just handed you a career-maker on a silver platter.”  He stands up a little straighter, his eyes drifting into the distance as though recalling a fond memory.  “This could be your ‘I Spent the Night with Superman’.” 

Just then, as if someone cued his entrance, a senior intern barrels into the room, with a handful of pink message slips.  “Mr. Olsen, calls have been coming in for over an hour.  All people who claimed to have seen Valor _before_ last night’s bridge crash.  What should I do with these?” 

James smiles and gives Kara a pointed look and says to the intern, “Direct all enquiries and witness statements regarding Valor to one Miss Kara Danvers.” 

The intern glances at her, she smiles, a grin that’s not altogether professional in nature (perhaps just a touch of gloating—just a smidge) and turns back to James.  “Yes, sir.” He hands the slips to Kara before rushing back out into the bustling, phone-ringing bullpen. 

“There you have it, Miss Danvers,” James says.  “I believe you’ve got phone calls to return.  Get to work.” 

“Aye, aye, Captain!” she faux salutes, her hand overflowing with pink message slips.   “I’ll get right on it.” 

Kara retreats immediately from James’s office, slinking quietly away to the office few people know about.  Cat had bestowed the office upon her, once she deemed Kara had outgrown the position as her assistant.  She rarely used the office, since she prefers her desk in the center of it all, in the bustling reporter bullpen outside of Snapper’s office.  But the secret, small corner office, that stood empty long before Cat’s generous gift, serves an even more important purpose.  It’s where she retreats when Supergirl is needed and she needs to make a quick, under-the-radar escape. 

She stuffs her duffel into the large bottom drawer of the desk and locks it with a tiny key attached to her badge lanyard.  Her metal desk, that she’s sure has been around since World War II, contains all the basic office supplies as well as a laptop locked into a docking station, and an auxiliary monitor.  The phone is already set to forward, so that it rings in this office as well as in the bullpen, and already the message lights are blinking. 

Kara sets to work returning calls, getting statements, using her super speed to take notes.  There is nothing she doesn’t already know, hearing from witnesses to both the Ferris Hospital fire and the Parasite incident.  Though some of them provided a better, more accurate description than Mrs. Hardwick had.  “I’ll just conveniently lose those,” Kara mutters to herself, scribbling out the descriptions, but leaving in the other quotes. 

Her stomach growls viciously and checking the time, Kara’s shocked to discover it’s after lunch already.  Time has slipped away and she hasn’t yet heard from Mon-El.  Frankly, she had expected him to run her to ground before the morning was out.  He’s teasing her, inflaming her anticipation.  Her ankles crossed, she squeezes her knees together, licking her lips as she feels the delicious pressure between her heated thighs.  She recalls her promise and has every intention of seeing it through, but she also trusts that Mon-El will not leave her wanting. If he doesn’t get here soon….she _needs_ a distraction. 

As though an answer to her prayer, the phone rings and she snatches it from the cradle, “CatCo Worldwide, Danvers speaking.” 

“Uh…hi,” a male voice says, it’s raspy but slightly higher in tone.  It reminds her of a cartoon squirrel.  “Is this the reporter working on the Valor story?” 

“That’s right,” she answers.  “What can I do for you?” 

“It’s what I can do for you,” he replies.  “You see…I mighta seen something the other morning.  Something you might want to know about.” 

“I’m listening,” she tells him.  “Can you tell me your name?” 

Brief pause, shuffling sounds on the line.  “Why you gotta know that?” 

“Well, in case I quote you in the story.  You don’t want me to have it wrong, do you?”  She cajoles him, already sensing a skittish personality. 

“Okay, but I don’t want to get no one in trouble...least ways myself.” 

“I understand, Mr...?” 

“Berger,” he replies, almost instinctively.  He sighs, and she can hear the disappointment in it.  “Rex Berger.” 

“Well, it’s nice to talk to you Mr. Berger.  What can _you_ do for _me_ today?” she chuckles a little.  “Is this about what happened with Valor last night?” 

“I don’t know about all that.  But something happened a few nights ago and I think somebody should know about it. Somebody who’s not gonna think I’m crazy.” 

“Well, hit me Mr. Berger.  I have a high tolerance for crazy.” 

“I’m a custodial engineer and I work nights on the top four floors of Merlyn Global, see? Every day from 9 PM to 5 AM.” 

“I understand.” 

“So the other morning….”

 “Can you tell me which morning?” she interrupts.  “For the purpose of the story, I have to get the details right.” 

“Well, it was day before payday, so Thursday of last week.” 

“Excellent,” she says writing it down.  “Please continue.” 

“Anyway…so I’m emptying the trash bin in the CFO’s office and I look out the window and see a man standing on the rooftop across the street.  It’s the Emeritus Bank building, you know the one?” 

“I know it.” 

“That building is about three floors shorter than MG, so I had a pretty good angle on him.” 

“Can you tell me what he looked like?” 

“Jeans, black hoodie.   That’s all.” Just like Valor, she notes. 

“What was he doing, Mr. Berger?” 

“The damnedest thing, Miss Danvers.  If it wasn’t for all these aliens and meta-whatevers showing up I wouldn’t have believed my own eyes!  I’ll be damned if he wasn’t draining the juice from the power transformer on the roof.” 

“He was electrocuting himself?” she asks, confused.  “On purpose?” 

“That’s what it looked like to me.  Took the panel off the transformer, stuck his hands in there and Bob’s-your-uncle. Thought for sure he was a dead man!” 

“I’m assuming he wasn’t…dead then?” 

“Nope,” he rushes to say.  “Stood there a minute or two, stiff as a board, his hair all sticking straight out of his head.  I did have a laugh about that afterwards.  Afterwards, mind you!  When I _knew_ he wasn’t dead as a doornail.” 

“What happened when he was done?” 

“He put the panel back on the transformer like he’d never been there, walked over to the edge of the building where I couldn’t see and just…dropped right off the edge. I thought maybe he really _was_ trying to kill himself.”  Kara flinches at the phrase _and_ the idea of it.  “But I suppose if sucking down 10,000 volts isn’t going to do it, then throwing yourself off the roof of a 15 storey building isn’t gonna do it either.  At least I didn’t hear nothing about it on the news the next day, so I guess there wasn’t no body.” 

“No…” she replies, “There wasn’t.  About what time of the morning did you see this, Mr. Barkley?” 

“It was about an hour before quittin’ time, so about 4 AM.” 

“And do you know if anyone else saw it?  Were there any other janitors who might have witnessed the incident?” 

“No, ma’am. I’m the only one on the floor, see…? The other janitors are all too low in the building to see the roof across the way.” 

“I see. Have you talked about this with anyone?” 

“You think I’m crazy?  I want to keep my job, not get locked away in a nuthouse.” 

“I understand. I’m going to look into this, Mr. Berger. See what I can find.” 

“You are?” 

“I am. If I write a story I’ll be sure to quote you.  But if I don’t, then it’s probably best if you don’t mention what you saw to anyone else.” 

“I heard that,” he says, emphatically.  “Feels good just to get it off my chest.” 

“And if you see or hear anything else strange, you can reach me at this number.” 

“Will do,” he answer.  “You have a nice day, Miss Danvers.” 

“And you too,” she politely replies before setting the phone back on the cradle. 

So many thoughts flood her mind at once that she sits at her desk, staring sightlessly ahead as she waits for them to settle, like floating dust particles drifting slowly to the ground.   The first thought that settled to the forefront was: Mon-El siphoning electricity? 

Could he really do that?  Kara was vulnerable to electricity, which is what made Livewire such a difficult foe to face…and defeat.  She’d needed Barry’s help and the help of some brave bystanders and first responders to bring down the electricity-shooting meta-human.  But if that was one of his abilities why didn’t she know about it? 

Kara recalls then, the days that Mon-El had been unconscious after his arrival, the way the building had experienced more than a few grey-outs.  The lights and equipment had flickered off and then back on, and then at times, everything would dim for long minutes, like a visual whine from the building itself.  His body drained the building of its energy to repair itself on the cellular level.  But, to her knowledge, he had never used the ability while he was conscious, let alone learned to control it. 

Why would he keep this from her, and what was wrong with him that his cells needed repairing? 

And what was he doing out of the DEO at 4 AM on a Thursday morning? 

Perhaps her assumptions are all wrong, Kara second-guesses.  Maybe the name Valor is simply a coincidence after all, and it wasn’t Mon-El Mrs. Hardwick saw on the bridge this morning.  Perhaps there’s some other person, another Meta like Livewire, who can drain electricity and use it to power themselves.  Or perhaps massive amounts of electricity are simply the source of other abilities, like jumping from the roof and landing unharmed on the street below. 

The more pieces to the puzzle she receives the more Eliza’s theory begins to make sense.   If it is Mon-El than that’s two nights in less than a week where he was witnessed outside of the DEO during curfew hours.  Which means if he’s getting any sleep at all, it isn’t much.  Even a Kryptonian needs rest to recharge mentally because though the radiation from the yellow sun helps take care of injuries, it is not a cure-all.  Perhaps it’s the same for a Daxamite. 

She wants him to be well, however she can’t help but feel as though the closer they become the more he hides from her.  A sinking feeling encompasses her heart, as though trying to drag it down into an abyss, but she fights it off, steadfastly refusing to give in to despair.  She’s going to find out what’s going on with him, but she’s not going to do it as a reporter.  She’s going to do it as the woman who cares for him.  His mate. 

She formulates a plan.  She has enough information to draw certain conclusions, and so she might as well use it. When she sees him next, she will give him what he needs. 

And then, when his defenses are lowered, she will get what _she_ needs to protect him from himself.

 

****

 

Perhaps it was lack of foresight, or he could blame it on his still lacking knowledge in how this world works, but he could not have predicted the size and scope of the mayhem that ensued after his act of heroism at the bridge. 

It isn’t until he emerges from his quarters at a half past 8, that he even realizes something is amiss.  Somehow, when he had assisted the couple in the falling car, it had never occurred to him that anything he’d done would be newsworthy.  Which is strange, considering his girlfriend is _all_ about the news. 

The CIC is abuzz with activity, every terminal manned by a hardworking genius. 

“Glad to see you’re right where I left you,” he snarks at the frazzled and tired-looking Winn.  “What’s going on?”  Inspired by Winn’s exhausted appearance, Mon-El runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it seem like it’s seen a brush recently.

 “I really don’t have time to indulge you at the moment, Mon-El,” Winn replies.  Aside from the odd use of words, there’s a bite in his tone.  A bite that seems to be directed solely at him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks. 

“Did you pull a falling car off a bridge last night?  Because if not, then…no,” Winn sighs, realizing that the tone of his earlier statement had revealed too much. 

Mon-El focuses on the wall of screens displaying everything from local to international news.  And they all seem to be telling the same story…about him – or about Valor, to be more precise. 

He had made a decision last night when that woman had asked what to call him.  Like Kara, he had seen a path laid out before him – one he couldn’t ignore, and so he chose to put one foot in front of the other and step on that path.  But he hadn’t bargained on gaining the attention of the world.  It’s a lot of pressure, perhaps too much, when ordinary people look up to you -- _expect_ from you. 

“Because it’s so easy to fail,” Ral provides, standing beside Mon-El his eyes tilted up to the screens. 

“How can I not?” he speculates. 

“You’re selling yourself short, brother.  You did a great thing last night, and you’ll do even more great things in the future.” Ral points at the screens on the wall, some of them now showing things other than the hot topic of Valor.  He points in particular at a news program rolling tape on a riot in a place called Kuala Lumpur, and on another screen, the aftermath of an earthquake in distant country named Azerbaijan.  “Look, brother…this world is in need of balance and you can help provide it.  Supergirl and her cousin may be powerful, but the world is wide and disturbed, with endless violence and destruction.  The people of this planet haven’t figured out who they are yet, but they have so much potential.  You can help show them who they _can_ be.” 

“Surely there are better people than me for this,” he whispers, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers. 

“Name one,” Ral challenges, cocking his blonde head to the side.  “And they don’t count if they’re already wearing Kryptonian glyphs. 

Mon-El opens his mouth to add a name. 

“Or frequently use the phrase ‘Last Son of Mars’,” Ral cuts him off at the pass. “Also, _he’s_ not hesitating to do his part.  Like it or not, you’ve already made this choice.  You can’t back out now just because there’s a little bit more of a spotlight than you wanted.” 

The truth is, Valor may be newborn, but that doesn’t mean Mon-El has the slightest clue how to begin – how to the really begin.  Last night, Winn had mentioned designs for a suit, which he is definitely going to need, especially since his brilliant disguise of wearing a black hoodie has now been broadcast all over the world. 

Mon-El was born into a world of expectations, and from the moment he was old enough to fully understand the implications of that, he has done everything in his power to push back against them.  On most occasions, trying to escape them altogether.  Never in a million years could he ever meet his father’s expectations for him, and so somewhere along the line, he stopped trying, surrendering to the inevitable.  That he was destined to be little more than a disappointment to the people who wanted—needed—him to be more. 

It seems as if it’s happening all over again – only this time by his own invitation. 

“I have to get out,” he gulps, the buzzing atmosphere around him choking the breath from him.   

“What was that?” Winn asks, though he seems barely invested in the answer. 

“I have to get to work,” he corrects.  It’s not a lie, he rationalizes. Soon his work hours will begin in the evening, but there’s still much to be done at the bar to prepare for its reopening in two days. But Mon-El needs some air and to feel as though the walls aren’t closing in around him. 

He considers taking the ‘Supergirl exit’ but rethinks that plan when it occurs to him that now might not be the best time to remind them that he possesses all the powers required to fit the Valor description.  Not to mention the wardrobe.  It’s best to play it cool for the time being.  Just keep pretending he was asleep in his quarters all night last night. 

He doesn’t know what made him do it, but before leaving his quarters for the CIC this morning, he had stuffed his rarely used and completely extraneous glasses into the pocket of his jacket.  Out on the street, though no one by rights should recognize him, he feels exposed and vulnerable.  Taking the glasses out of his pocket, he slides them onto his face, setting them on the bridge of his nose. 

A strange sense of peace settles over him the moment they fall into place. 

Mon-El never understood the nature of Kara’s glasses until this very moment.  Of course, intellectually he knew they were lined with lead and helped her control her abilities as a child, making assimilation slightly easier.  But he sees now that it must go deeper than that.  Though he had no need for glasses to correct his eyesight, sliding them on had provided him with new vision. 

More so than Mon-El, Kara’s eyesight is far and beyond the perfection as determined by humans.  She can focus on events happening thousands of yards away and can examine items on a microscopic level, plus there’s also the convenience of being able to see _through_ things.  But somewhere in childhood, she must have developed a dependence upon them. 

Though he finds it ridiculous the notion that a simple pair of glasses can hide her true identity from anyone with keen eyes, he can’t discount their ability to make her _feel_ hidden.  And as Mon-El discovers as soon as he dons his own superfluous glasses, _feeling_ hidden is half the battle. 

When he reaches the bar, M’gann immediately takes note of his new accessory.  “Nice disguise,” she compliments, “rescue any people off of bridges lately?” 

“How did you--?” he wonders, his eyes growing wide. 

“I’m a shapeshifter,” she shrugs.  “I understand what it’s like to disguise yourself to hide from something you’ve done. Take my advice: if you don’t want J’onn to know what you’re up to at night, don’t wear those in front of him.” 

Mon-El removes the glasses and pockets them in his jacket.  “Did you always know about Kara?” he asks. 

“Oh, sure. Though, unlike you, she’s taken time to cultivate her hero persona – make it more difficult to recognize the Supergirl in Kara Danvers.” 

“I don’t understand,” Mon-El shakes his head. 

M’gann smiles wryly, and Mon-El realizes he’s about to be schooled by someone much older and wiser than himself.  In the past he might scoffed at the notion, ignored proffered advice, and walked away from such counsel, but today he sidles up to the bar and listens with thirsty ears. “A part of you knows this already, or has begun to suspect.  It’s why you’ve given her your heart.” 

Mon-El’s back straightens, the aforementioned organ set to racing in his chest.  “How did you--?” 

“I see things people don’t want me to see, remember?  Besides, you’re not incredibly subtle.  It’s cute.” 

Mon-El rolls his eyes as the wall he carefully constructed to shield his growing feelings for his mate from the outside world crumbles in the face of M’gann’s observations. Were it up to him, no wall would exist. Mon-El wants the world to know she’s his, but she isn’t ready for that, and he wants to respect her decision. Also her logic for not making their relationship public knowledge until CADMUS can be neutralized is sound. 

“As much as you admire Supergirl and all the things that she can do, at the end of the day it’s Kara that you take to your bed at night.  You understand that, right?”  He opens his mouth once again to ask how she knows about the physical part of his relationship with Kara, but a single raised eyebrow from her quells the question.  His mouth snaps shut.  “Kara, the one who wears the glasses, who laughs when she’s nervous, or crinkles her eyebrow when she’s upset – _that’s_ the real girl.  Supergirl is the armor she wears when she’s out saving the world.” 

Mon-El thinks back to the day at the children’s hospital.  Supergirl had put out the fire and saved all of those lives. But it had been Kara Danvers who’d cried in his arms over the young lives snuffed out in an instant.  It’s Kara that has a terrifying tendency to rush headlong into danger without fear of the consequences, but it’s Supergirl who gets her out of those situations alive. 

Supergirl can take bullets to the chest, or collide head-on with rocket propelled grenades without a single flinch, but the mere suggestion that he wasn’t happy with her performance their first time together sends Kara into an emotional tailspin. Supergirl can punch through cinderblock walls, can burn holes through anything, and toss a shipping container across a train yard, but Kara needs to be held and caressed after lovemaking. 

He loves to watch Supergirl in action, is always filled with awe, but it’s the moments when her armor is off and she’s just Kara, his and his alone, that send his soul soaring. 

“What you have to do, Mon-El, is figure out which one of you is going to be the armor. The guy who pulls falling cars off of bridges?  Or the guy in the glasses?” 

Mon-El nods. It’s definitely something to think about, and certainly something he hadn’t considered when altering his entire life trajectory in the early hours of this morning. 

“Now,” M’gann says, her tone announcing a change of topic.  “Let’s get down to work.  Why don’t you come around the bar so I can show you some things?”  Mon-El hops of his bar stool and makes his way around the bar, while M’gann begins her instruction.  “Each of the spigots under the bar contain a different base drink. Club soda, tonic water, cola, et cetera. Over here we have the draft beer and ales.” 

Her instruction goes on for hours, until Mon-El’s brain is spinning with the new data it’s trying to assimilate.  After about an hour he begs off for a break and fifteen minutes later returns with a pad for taking notes.  She runs him through a list of the most popular mixed beverages, how to make them, and in what proportions the alcohol should be added so that house money isn’t wasted. 

After a while, M’gann leaves him alone with the bar to familiarize himself with the bottles and what’s in each of them.  The bottles, though decontaminated, will still have to be replaced with fresh ones anyway, so he’s free to practice with them.  As long as the drinks go down the drain once he’s taste-tested them.

There’s so much to learn about this working business, Mon-El realizes. Decontaminating the bar following the release of the Medusa virus was hard work, but there was something simple about it at the same time.  He came in every day, sprayed and scrubbed every possible surface until it no longer fluoresced under black light (which was actually kind of purple), and at the end of the day he got paid.  He didn’t need skill really, or even much intelligence, but somehow it made him money and it led to something more – which he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to handle. 

He just has to remember that he’s doing this for Kara, because he wants to be a better man for her.  She doesn’t need someone to provide for her, she can do that all by herself, but at the very least she needs him to stand on his own two feet so that she doesn’t have to prop him up like some useless piece of decoration.  Living life as little more than a decorative piece is a feeling with which he’s all too familiar, and he’s beginning to accept that it’s a position to which he no longer aspires.  And perhaps, in some ways, he never did – he just never knew how to make a change – never knew that he could. 

“You were always told you could do whatever you wanted,” Ral nods, sitting across the bar like a ghostly customer, leaning his chin on one palm.  “You just misunderstood what that meant.  Maybe now you’ll understand.” 

“I’m not sure I’m smart enough for this,” Mon-El laments. 

“Are you joking?  Because I swear to the gods, I can’t tell anymore.  Is this my brother who was made of swagger and confidence?” 

“With lovers,” Mon-El clarifies.  “I never had to be anything but who I was with them,” he points out.  “You know it wasn’t really me they were after anyway.” 

“You have the best of him, remember?  And he was no idiot.  You just have to accept that; about him, _and_ about yourself.”   

Mon-El nods, begrudgingly.  Parental love wasn’t something that was terribly rampant on Daxam.  Like on Krypton, all children were conceived and grown in a birthing matrix, and though their origins came from parental DNA, development in the matrix precluded all pre-birth bonding between mother and child. Children were merely a means to secure power and to propagate a bloodline. 

It’s one of the things that fascinates him about Earth, the way Eliza is so attached and protective of Alex and Kara.  At the hospital, after the tragic crash of the shuttle…no…helicopter, he saw many people weeping over the loss of lives.  Some parents wept and hugged him because he had saved the life of their child.  He recalls the expression of horror on the face of the woman whose daughter stood in the path of hurtling automobile thrown by Parasite, and her look of awe and gratitude when he stopped the car from crashing into the child.  The outpouring of emotions from these parents would have been considered unprecedented on Daxam.  A lost child might simply have been replaced. 

And parental love was certainly never something he felt from his own father; instead he felt an enormous pressure to succeed, to conform, and always to be more like _him_. 

“He wanted you to survive, brother, and if you want to make it on this planet, either as Mon-El, or Mike, or Valor, then you need to start using the aptitudes he bequeathed to you and stop denying them,” Ral urged.  “Whether you agree with the things he did, or not.  It’s time to put the child away, my friend, and be man we all knew you could be.”   

M’gann walks back into the bar from the office in back and tosses him a book.  “Drink recipes,” she announces.  “The ones from Earth, at least.  I’ll try to write down the other ones I know.  Some we have to figure out as we go along,” she shrugs. “Study the book,” she suggests. “Learn its wisdom.” 

“Right,” he replies, staring down at the small paperback book.  It’s tattered and worn, dog-eared in places, and half of the back cover is ripped off.  He also notices as he flips rapidly through the pages that there are useful notes inside. He tucks the book into the back pocket of his jeans, imagining that the book is going to be an important part of his life in the coming weeks and, hopefully, months. 

“I’m also going to need you to run security from time to time,” M’gann says.  “I have two other bartenders and neither one of them suited to taking out the trash.” 

Mon-El can’t begin to imagine what dispensing with garbage has to do with security. “Taking out the trash?” he wonders. 

“Which in this case is a euphemism for escorting unruly and troublemaking customers to the exit.  Try not to break them.  I don’t need a lawsuit.” 

Mon-El grimaces.  Keeping humans in one piece is an art he isn’t sure he’s quite mastered yet.  “Ah.  I’ll do my best.”  Hopefully he will just be able to intimidate any rule breaking humans with a moderate show of super strength and that will be enough to keep them in line. 

“Most of them will be drunk and docile.  Just call those an Uber and see them to the car.  It’s the belligerent ones you have watch out for.  You never know when some Frellic is going to decide to eject their neck spikes.  So be prepared.  Stay calm and try not to get your panties in a bunch over it.” 

“Panties,” he echoes, the word triggering a memory.  His eyes open wide like trying to see in a pitch black room, before slamming shut with a groan.  “Grife!” 

“What is it?” M’gann asks. 

“Nothing,” he covers.  “Just something I forgot to do.”  Mon-El had been so caught up in the drama of becoming Valor and everything that surrounded it, that he’d completely forgotten he’d asked Kara to go without panties for the day.  Bad boyfriend!  Very bad boyfriend! 

“Well, we’re about done here for the time being anyway.  Why don’t you go take care of it before it gets too late? Remember…tomorrow you start your new late schedule – 6 PM until lock-up.  I’ve already signed the paperwork for J’onn, so you’re good to go.” 

“Thanks so much, Boss,” Mon-El replies, trying out the new nickname.  “You have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“I do,” he counters.  “Once upon a time, I stood where you’re standing—not literally—and someone gave me a shot.  In the future, someone’s going to want a chance at a new life, and you’re going to be the one in a position to offer it.  You can pay it forward by doing for them what I’ve done for you.”

 “I’ll remember that.”

 “Good. Now get out of here.”

He exits on a breeze, but comes to a screeching halt no sooner than when he steps into the alleyway.  An avalanche of changes have happened just since the last time he kissed Kara good night, as though days have gone by instead of mere hours.  The idea of keeping them secret from her, of looking in her beautiful hope-filled face and lying to her about all of it, makes him feel sick inside. 

“Exactly what I think, brother,” Ral butts in.  “These cards definitely need to go on the table.” 

“She’ll be…disappointed.  Again.” 

“Maybe she’ll give you credit for confessing on your own,” Ral suggests.  “Not an easy thing in a new relationship; believe me…I know. At any rate, certainly better than if she finds out on her own…or worse, from someone else.  Winn’s no idiot, he’s going to put together the puzzle sooner rather than later, and what do you think will happen then?” 

“He’ll always be loyal to Kara.” 

“And then there’s Alex,” Ral added.  “I would be surprised if she doesn’t know already.  If you’re lucky…she might give you a small window of time to come clean, because she doesn’t want to hurt her sister.  Brother – by the time you return to the DEO they may be ready to lock you up, you need to have Kara on your side.  Because J’onn will know the second he lays eyes on you.” 

“I can’t let that happen,” Mon-El agrees. 

“You know what you have to do.”

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes:
> 
> \--So do you think ya’ll are primed for some Karamel smut? ;)  
>  \--The chapter is smut from start to finish. There be no plot here.  
>  \--Remember we’re moving deeper into Dom/sub territory. If that squicks out pick the story up again at chapter 5 -- you likely won’t miss much plot.  
>  \--You’re welcome. 
> 
> Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze

 

  Chapter 4/5

 

_  
_ _I’d give up the ghosts_

_Locked up inside me_

_If I ever once had cared_

_And time won’t ever fade_

_Silken threads that break_

_Thrown to the wolves_

_I’m always frozen_

_\--Four Star Mary – “Thrown to the Wolves”_

  

It is pushing four o’clock and she’s heard nothing from Mon-El, and of course, she has no way to contact him if he’s outside of the DEO.  Getting him a cell phone, no matter how rudimentary, goes to the top of her priority list.   Kara needs to talk to him, about this Valor business, but most of all she needs to see him, to make sure he’s all right. 

After lunch, the rush of calls transferred to her office phone dwindles down to a trickle, and she’s left with notes that need compiling.  Rex Berger’s call to confess seeing man downtown siphoning electricity from a rooftop transformer in the wee hours of the morning, hadn’t been the last one of the day.  There had been two more to follow; each on a different nights and each with a similar story to tell.  This has been going on for some time, perhaps since before they got together, and she needs Mon-El to tell her everything, for the sake of his continued support by the DEO _and_ for their relationship. 

The morning started out with such promise when she’d climbed out of bed and gotten dressed, minus one important garment; and just when she thinks the morning’s potential is going to turn out to be a wash, her phone rings. 

“Danvers,” she answers, her tone indicating uncertainty as to what to expect on the other end of the line. 

“Kara?” came Eve Tessmacher’s voice.  “I thought you should know Mike’s up here looking for you.” 

“Mike?” she wonders aloud, trying to place the name for a second before it hits her. “Oh! Mike…right!  I’m hiding out on the 14th floor.  Can you send him down here to 1427?” Involuntarily, her heart kicks into overdrive racing towards an unknown finish line.   

“Sure thing, Kara.” 

Kara’s face flushes, the heat traveling down her neck to her chest and below.  Her hands shake a little, so she stands from her chair and wipes them against the front of her skirt, over and over and until she can old them up without seeing the tremors. 

Less than ten seconds after Kara hung up with Eve, Mon-El is slipping into the room without knocking and locking the door behind him. 

Kara giggles. “I guess you took the stairs.” 

She throws herself at him before he has the chance to speak, planting her mouth against his.  Mon-El’s brain calmly tells him to pull away, to remember what he resolved to do upon seeing her, but his body screams otherwise.  He wages an inner war, his mind seeking the tactic that will turn the tide in his favor. 

He seems stunned into submission by her aggressive kiss, which she finds exhilarating since it’s usually the other way around.  Taking advantage of his dazed state, she drops to her knees before him, her fingers unerringly locating the closures of his jeans, and wastes no time vanquishing them.  Possibly at super speed. 

“Kara, that’s not“—he attempts.  Her hand dives in and wraps around his cock and he is lost, all thoughts of super hero madness and nighttime electricity raids evaporating like rain drops on the sweltering planet Ertrenea.   “Gods,” he hisses. 

The warmth of her hand sends the blood rushing to that appendage with a speed he finds unprecedented.  He had been with many lovers over his lifetime, but none had suborned such a spontaneous and primal response as his Kara.  As though she owns him body and soul, commanded by her will and her will alone.   

The pad of her thumb circles over the rounded head of his swiftly hardening cock and she must prevent herself from taking him into her mouth completely quite so soon. She wants to taste him, to feel his silken steel cradled by her tongue, but she also loves to hear him tell her what to do.  Her core throbs at the thought and she spreads her knees farther apart to relish the sensation. 

Letting go of him, she slides her hands around his backside and takes hold of the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down until they bunch up around his knees.  There’s something thick and bulky in his back pocket but there’s no time consider looking more deeply.  She places a kiss on the tip of his spear before tilting her back and looking up at him. 

“Tell me,” she whispers, her voice thick with arousal, her cheeks growing ever pinker. 

“Kara, I don’t think“—he tried once more. 

“Tell me.” 

She’s impossible, his goddess; so perfectly impossible to resist.  “Take your hair down,” he demands.  “But leave the glasses on.  And take off your shirt and bra.  I want to see you.”  The words are barely past his lips before it’s done, and he thanks the gods for super speed.  She’s so beautifully vulnerable on her knees before him, staring up at him from behind her glasses with half-lidded cornflower blue eyes.  Mon-El gulps hard, his own salivary glands working overtime as her gazes down at her, and the cock bobbing in front of her face.  “Open your mouth.” 

As instructed, Kara opens her mouth, rolling her tongue out like a red carpet, her eyes never leaving his.  Her hands roam up his muscular thighs, until her thumbs come close enough to caress tantalizingly near his testicles.  Already, with only the lightest touch and the barely controlled lust he sees deep in her eyes, his cock is as hard as stone. 

Her mouth remains open, demanding its due like a baby bird demands a worm.  Mon-El obliges by placing the weeping head on the tip of her tongue.  Kara closes her mouth over the head and then slides down the shaft until she can feel the tip brush against her tonsils.  She withdraws smoothly, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks on the cock to apply pressure, before diving forward again.   

Her salivary glands work on overdrive to create lubrication, and each time she takes him into her mouth, the cavern grows warmer and warmer.  The pressure she applies is enticing and breathtaking, though not nearly as satisfying as being inside of her clutch.  She adds her hand to the mix, wrapping her fingers around the shaft as she withdraws, and pumps it once or twice as she circles her tongue around the head, before sliding her mouth back down upon again. 

“That’s my girl,” he sighs, his reason for tracking her down all but forgotten in the depths of his pleasure-addled brain.  “Just like that.”  Mon-El gazes down at her, her eyes closed in bliss, as though she enjoys the giving of pleasure just as much as he enjoys the receiving of it.  He drops a hand to the top of her head and sifts his fingers through it before fisting a handful of her gloriously thick golden locks until she opens her eyes.  “Are you wet?” he asks. 

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she hums around him.  The vibration of her affirmative answer ripples through him, sending a shiver up his spine.  He groans, gripping her hair tighter as he guides her head over his cock, her mouth so hot and wet around him. 

“Reach under your skirt,” he tells her, “and touch yourself.”  His thighs and ass harden in an effort to not give in to his primal desire to fuck her sweet mouth until his cock hits the back of her throat. 

Without hesitation, she brushes her skirt out of the way and slips two fingers into her molten wet folds, rewarding Mon-El with a deep humming groan, which has him hissing in ecstasy as liquid fire fills her bones.  Her fingers delve into the grasping greediness of her core hunting satisfaction before retreating to electric switch of nerves near the apex of her folds. 

Her moans travel down his cock, spider tendrils of pleasure spreading outwards as they voyage up his spine to the base of his skull.  His jaw tightens as he bites down on his lower lip, releasing a growl from deep within his chest.  Mon-El grips her hair tighter, holding her head steady as he begins to piston his hips toward her willing mouth.  Now that he’s finally taken control, she drops her other hand to her breast, cupping and squeezing her nipple to full arousal as his cock fills her mouth. 

Kara wants to feel him rutting like a beast inside of her.  Fingers toy with her clit, but it’s never enough to satisfy the yawning, gaping greed that lays siege to the core of her, when only he will do. It’s never enough when it’s just her fingers and not his.  But nonetheless, she enjoys his passion for her, even if it means she’ll have to wait to feel the fullness of it.  She wants him to come in her mouth, to taste his essence in the back of her throat, even if it means her own release will be short and hollow. 

But Mon-El has other ideas.  Somewhere along the line he decided he didn’t want to come in her mouth, didn’t want to waste the erection, when he could feel the heaven of her clutch fluttering around him and then gripping his cock as though it’s her anchor to this mortal plane. 

When he pulls out, a look of disappointment and confusion crosses her features before he’s lifting her to her feet and turning her around, pointing her towards the ancient metal desk.   It doesn’t take much encouragement for her to bend over, elbows on the Formica surface as fingers grasp at the edges of the eyesore in front of her.  Tossing a glance over her shoulder, Kara sees that he’s pulled a condom from somewhere, perhaps his front pocket, and he’s currently freeing it from its foil confines.  She wiggles her hips in anticipation. 

“Impatient for me?” he smirks, rolling the condom in place like he’s a pro at it now. 

“Maybe a little,” she replies coyly, licking the taste of him from her lips. 

Mon-El lifts her skirt and examines her folds; finding the dark pink haven swollen and glistening with desire; hungry for him.  He aligns his cock with her waiting core and presses just the tip inside, enjoying the sound of her aroused gasp and the way her back arches involuntarily. 

He asks her the question then, the one she loves to answer.  “Will you have me?  Will you take me inside of you?”

 “Yes, Mon-El,” she replies, biting on her lower lip in anticipation. 

He moves in increments, allowing just an inch or so to penetrate her heat, teasing her as he withdraws almost immediately, before dipping in again.  Grasping at her hip, he runs his other hand all over the stunning perfection of her back, tickling her spine until it bows gently beneath his touch. 

“Mon-El,” she whines, panting lightly between her lips. 

He loves that sound.  The sound of her desperation, of her breathless need.  “Yes, sunshine?” he asks, teasing her repeatedly with just a fraction of his hardened steel.  He decides in this moment to draw her out of her comfort zone a little more, to make her use that word he’s dreamed of hearing pass her lips. 

He wants to teach her that true intimacy means more than just teaching a lover the ways of pleasure, or lovemaking or even the highly charged claiming of a mate. Sometime it’s just two bodies taking what they need when they need it.  Sweaty passion that steals beyond the higher functions and barges deeper into the heart of a more primal need. 

“Tell me what you want,” he goads, reaching around to grasp her breast.  He cups the soft flesh and rolls it between his fingers before taking the nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisting the sensitive bud. 

The pain turns almost instantly into pleasure and she’s flooded with the sensation of her core growing wetter in response.  She gasps at the revelation of it.  His cock teases her, her clutch clamping frantically around its head, in a desperate bid to draw him further inside.  She aches and throbs for him.  “Please,” slips out between her pursed lips, a sigh only heard by their ears.

The sound of a hard slap rings throughout the room, and a powerful stinging sensation spreads across her backside.  It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before.  Of course, she’s seen people get slapped before, heard that familiar sound of flesh colliding violently with flesh.  Rude men who overstepped their boundaries, and underestimated the courage of the women they’d insulted.  Enraged women coming to blows over something they both felt passionate about, from opposite sides of the issue.  In movies, in television and even on news reports, the sound is something she’s not unaccustomed to hearing. 

She is, however, unaccustomed to _feeling_ it.  In the past, any attempt to slap her had always resulted in the assailant walking away with an injured palm, if they were lucky and broken metacarpals if they were really committed.  It is a sensation she finds undeniably intriguing and deliciously human.  An invigorating warmth almost instantly joins the spread of the sting, the two sensations working in concert to sensitize every nerve in her body, particularly the ones below the waist. 

Mon-El’s eyebrow perks up and a grin expands slowly across his face.  “Oh,” he chuckles.  “You _like_ that, don’t you?”  When she doesn’t answer immediately, a blush heating her face, he raises his other hand and provides a slap to her opposite cheek. She jerks in response, a tiny mewling cry springing forth as she bites down on her lower lip to prevent a longer, louder noise.  “ _Don’t_ you, sunshine?” he presses. 

“Mmm-hmmm,” she confesses, pressing her lips tightly together.  Her hands grip the sides of the desk more tightly as she waits, prays, for the next blow to strike. 

“I want to hear you say it,” he orders, allowing his cock to dip back into her heat, but only just the tip.  He punctuates his instruction with another slap, harder and firmer than the previous ones. She squeals, a shaky breath escaping through taut lips. 

Kara contemplates defying his command, in hopes that he’ll smack her toned, tenderized rump again, but suspects that his reaction to her tiny rebellion would have the opposite effect as the one desired.  Already he’s caressing a warm spot on her cheek with the backs of his fingers, intent on taking away the invigorating sting.  “Say it, sunshine, and I’ll let you have another,” he cajoles this time. 

“I like it,” she huffs, wiggling her hips as if to evade the comforting caress of his hand.

 Mon-El seizes her hips in a stronger hold, his fingers digging in to her radiantly ivory skin. His solid steel shaft, so desperate to sheath himself inside of her, slides tantalizingly along the crease of her ass.  “Now, now,” he chastises, “you know that’s not what I meant.  “Oh…oh no,” he exclaims melodramatically.  “The beautiful red skin is starting to fade.” 

“I like it,” she confesses, her voice soft and timid, a hint of embarrassment.  “I like it when you spank me, Mon-El.  Please?” she asks, her entire body tensing for the awaited blow. 

“You like it when I spank your….” His voice trails off, leaving the sentence open-ended for her to finish. 

“I like it when you spank my ass,” she finishes. 

“Good girl,” he smiles.  “And good girls should get everything their little heart’s desire.”  With that, he delivers a blow to her cheek, calculated for maximum sting across the outer layers over her dermis.  She will redden, but she will not bruise.  Kara’s entire body sighs with relief, as though waiting for the strike is more painful than receiving it.  Mon-El’s other hand comes down on her opposite cheek and Kara jerks forward on her elbows, her eyes closing, a small smile gracing her lips. 

In quick succession, he delivers four more whacks, enjoying the way her toned ivory bottom turns a livid red beneath his hand.  Her skin there is hot to touch, and he knows that she will feel it all the more when he’s pounding into her, his pelvis smacking into the battered globes of her perfect backside. 

It is surreal, this awakening within her, as though layers of protective coating have been peeled away and she’s left with an evocative and erotic glimpse at human frailty.  Of course she’s heard about this sort of sexual play—to be honest, she always viewed it as a deviancy left in the wake of a past rife with physical abuse—but never imagined herself as a willing participant. Let alone an eager one. Now, she’s anxious to know more, to feel more.   

Kara comes back to herself long enough to realize Mon-El has ceased spanking her, and the tip of his cock is once again penetrating her hyper-aroused core. “Yes,” she gasps, ready to finally feel him moving, thrusting inside of her. 

He slides in so slowly, she wonders if it’s another tease as she takes in his girth inch by inch, stretching to accommodate him.  “Rao!” she cries.  “That feels so good.” 

Mon-El reverses his tactic from earlier, this time buried deep within her, he withdraws only a fraction before sliding back in.  While intimate, it promises little in the way of the satisfaction for which she’s looking.  “Is this what you want?” he teases, knowing it’s not what her body begs for. 

“More,” she pleads, reaching back to grab the hand clasped to her hip.  Catching him off his guard, Kara slams back against him until her ass hits his pelvis and the resulting sting takes her breath away. Mon-El tightens his grip on her hips so that won’t happened again. 

“You want to be in control?” he questions.  “Is that what you want?  Maybe I should sit in the chair and just let you ride me.”   

To some it might sound like a tempting offer, but to Kara it is a very real threat. When it comes to seeking pleasure, Kara finds that control is of no interest to her.  Control is something she has use every day at every moment. Except when she’s with him.  With Mon-El, she can let go—surrender—and know that in his care she is safe and protected. 

“No!” she begs.  “No, baby, please?”  Of course, she is completely capable of taking care of herself, of protecting herself (she _is_ Supergirl, after all), but there’s a certain aphrodisiac property to having a choice.  It turns her on to give away her power to him, to trust him not to abuse it.  With him, she feels human, the way his hand stings her skin when he slaps her ass, or the way his strong arms can position her body in any way that pleases him. For an all too brief time, in moments like these, she gets to feel like just like any other girl in the world. 

As though her perfect match in every way, Mon-El enjoys seizing the control. Perhaps because so little of his life is at his command.  He lives off the government’s stingy largesse, adhering to a curfew like a child they don’t want caught out after dark, forced to follow a set of rules that at times seem arbitrary and contrary to everything his native culture offered. So, seeing Kara on her knees before him, or begging him to make her feel good, makes Mon-El feel needed and important. And if she’s the only one that needs him, or sees his importance, that’s enough for him. 

“Harder,” she answers.  “Faster.” Kara’s voice is shyly tentative, and calculated to be so.  Mon-El likes the insinuation of her innocence, of an innate shyness that only he can breach, and she knows it -- gives it to him for his pleasure.  It’s a game she’s learning to recognize and play, a little more each time they’re together.  “Take me,’” she offers, her voice so sweet and fervent at the same time. 

With a flurry of movement, Mon-El whips off the jacket and tee shirt he’s wearing and tosses them over his shoulder.  He wants to feel more of his skin against hers; another slap rings out as his palm meets her pink ass.  “Take you?” he chuckles, rocking gently—too gently—into her body.  Leaning forward he covers her back with his chest and places his lips against her ear.  “I already have you,” he points out.  He cants his hips and snaps back, hard; she groans, bowing her neck backwards.  “I’m buried inside you,” he reminds her.  “How would you suggest I ‘ _take’_ you any more than I already have?” 

His physical control is ironclad.  How else can he speak so calmly to her, buried deep, without crumbling into a mass of frenzied and sloppy flesh?  He reaches under her body and cups her breast, tugging and twisting the nipple, adding harsh twist at the end.  A sharp pain streaks through her body, quick like a lightning bolt.  Like the slaps on her hind end, the sharp pain dissipates, leaving behind a spreading warmth and a strongly aroused nipple.  “Uuunnhhh,” she moans. 

“Ah,” he grins, nipping at the exposed cartilage of her ear with his teeth. “She likes that too, does she?” 

“Yes,” she confesses. 

“Who’s my good girl?”  He graces her with another pinch and twist, her body jerking beneath his.  Her clutch squeezes him tightly, and he revels in the intimacy of it. 

“I am,” she swears— _vows_.  “I am.” 

“Tell me what you want,” he commands.  “I know what you want, what your body needs.  But I want to hear you say it.  Say the word.  You know the one I’m talking about, sunshine.  I want to hear it from your own lips.”

“Mon-El,’ she complains.  She adorably balks at his request, as though she’s still that little girl who learned to be good for her parents, and not _his_ good girl, long legs spread, bent over the desk, her body writhing beneath his touch. 

Mon-El releases her breast and slides his hand up her chest and neck to grab her chin. He turns her face towards his and covers her mouth his lips, tongue plundering without shame.  She hungrily joins in, her tongue jousting with his, loving the rough feel of his hand gripping her jaw.  He pulls away, leaving her bereft.  “Shall I make love to you slowly then, until you fall apart with a sweet sigh?” 

He removes his hands from her completely, gripping the edges of the desk just below her hands, before he withdraws all the way and then slips slowly back into her heat.  Mon-El tucks his head into the crook of her neck as he pulls out once more, before sinking back in.  There is nothing about her clutch that isn’t magnificent; her heat, her tightness, and the way her muscles grip at him as he tries to leave and welcome him home when he returns.  He can do this all day, hours on end, withholding both their climaxes until she weeps for the need of it, as he enjoys every second of the sweetest torture the universe ever devised. 

“No,” she declares.  “I don’t want _that._ ” 

“Well, I _know_ what you don’t want,” he agrees.  If possible, he retreats even more slowly, leaving just the tip inside.  “Now tell me what you _do_.” 

“I want you to…fuck me,” she confesses.  It’s forbidden and so very dirty to acknowledge such things, though she has no idea where the notion comes from.  Perhaps from the earlier years of her upbringing, or maybe it’s just that she’s releasing a part of herself she’s kept locked inside for her entire life. But saying the words is followed by a sigh of relief, as though a chain has fallen away. 

“That’s my girl,” he coos, placing a series of hot open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder and shoulder blade.  “Now say it again.  I want you to say it over and over again until you’re not afraid of saying it anymore.”   He stands up straight and grasps tight to her waist with one hand, while he takes his cock into his other.  He guides the head of his cock up and down her glistening seam a few times before settling on her clit, and teasing the bundle of nerves until he hears her hiss sharply. 

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, following his order without hesitation this time.   Mon-El rewards her with a hard smack on her ass.   

The redness from her previous spanking has long since faded and she needs priming once more.  “Ooh,” she cries.  “I want you to fuck me.”  Kara proclaims her desire three times more, each time receiving a spanking, allowing that delicious warmth to spread across her backside until her skin is fevered and hypersensitive.  “Please fuck me, Mon-El.” 

“Close your legs,” he instructs, with a smack.  Mon-El’s left half a dozen scarlet palm prints on the canvas of her perfect ass.  Kara complies with his instruction, locking her knees as she does while he swiftly unzips her floral skirt and sends it to the ground pooling around her feet, leaving her perfectly naked before him.  She’s going to be so tight wrapped around him, feeling every inch of him pounding into her liquid heat.  Gripping her hips mercilessly, Mon-El plunges into her tight, wet clutch until he’s balls deep.  A loud smack is heard when his pelvis meets her rosy red ass. 

“Yes!” she urges, the pitch of her voice rising an octave.  “Yes!” 

With her encouragement, Mon-El releases the leash to which he’s been clinging so severely, and proceeds to fuck her with vigor.  Filling her so completely, so seamlessly, he pounds into her ruthlessly, each time his pelvis slapping against the heated skin of her backside. It’s so glorious a lump rises in her throat.  So much of her life has been about faking responses to outside stimuli; acting injured after a fall or after bumping into an inconveniently open desk drawer.  But in this moment she can feel everything; every pump of his shaft, the slap and sting of his skin against hers, and the possessive, bruising grip of his hands on her hips. 

Glancing down, Mon-El observes his cock pump in and out of her, now glistening with the evidence of her desire.  She’s so beautifully perfect, he knows he’s done nothing worthy of having her but now that he’s done so, he’s determined to never give her up.  A possessive fire burns hot within his chest; an internal rage at thought of anyone or anything taking her from him.  He will not have it.  She is all that he wants of this place.  She is his home, his choice, his mate, and he’s struck suddenly with the need to hear her say it.  And it’s of the utmost, binding importance that she say it while he’s inside of her, buried so deep she is his abyss. 

Mon-El reaches for her long, beguiling locks—so impossible to resist—and grabs a healthy chunk of it at the scalp, pulling until her neck and back bow in his direction.  The grip on her hair provides him new leverage to fuck her harder.  He changes his rhythm, retreating slowly than slamming back in as he pulls back on her hair.  Gods!  He would climb inside of her and stay there if such a thing were possible. 

He leans forward, his chest and belly looming over her back, one hand on the desk while the other grips her hair.  He can hear a low hum of satisfaction emitting from her, as if her body is running at peak efficiency, but the sound flows from her parted lips.  He knows if he could see the fullness of her face there would be a contented smile upon it.  She reaches for his hand on the desk and takes it in hers, their fingers interlacing as he continues to move in and out of her, his pace slow, his thrusts rough and fierce.  “God,” she sighs gratefully. 

“Who do you belong to, sunshine?” he grunts into her ear, tightening his hold on her hair. 

“You, Mon-El,” she responds, her tone confident and tinged with pride.  “I’m yours,” she continues.  “Just as you are mine.”  He is hers, this beautiful brave man, with the courage to face a new world without crumbling beneath the weight of its pressures, or the confusion born of its differences.  “Mine,” she growls possessively, sending a thrill streaking straight to his chest.  He plunges even harder into her heat, claiming her more with each dive into his precious abyss, knowing that someday he will be swallowed whole and he won’t mind in the slightest.  “Mine,” she growls once more. 

“Your what?” he demands.   

“Mine. Oh, God!  Don’t stop!” 

“Tell me,” he grunts, the feeling of impending release gathering in his lower spine and curving around his buttocks to root in his balls.  “I’m your what?”  He bites down on her shoulder, his teeth unable to draw blood but still capable of leaving his mark upon her, however briefly before it heals.  His sweat drips from his forehead to land on her back, his beads mixing with hers to form larger ones.  “I’m your what?” 

“My mate,” she submits easily, proudly.  Neither had spoken that word—that _commitment_ —before now, despite proclaiming a belonging with one another, the word ‘mate’ implies a much deeper and unbreakable bond. 

“Yes,” he exults.  She is his—his home, his heart, his everything.  “My mate.”  A part of him, inside, breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of the word.  Nothing would take her from him, nothing except death, and he will do all in his power to prevent that, including sacrifice his own life should it become necessary.  As is his right. 

Mon-El releases her hair and her hand, and stands up, leaving her bent over before him. Kara flattens her body atop the cool surface of the desk, changing his angle of entry slightly.  He pounds into her over and over, each push and withdrawal heating a fire inside like creating an ember with the repeated strike of two pieces of flint.  She will go up in smoke, burned all the way down to ash eventually, it’s only a matter of time. 

“You like that?” he asks, his tongue snaking out to taste the beads of sweat on his upper lip.  “You like it when I fuck you hard?  When I show you how much I want you?” 

“Yes,” she groans, her voice quivering as her entire body shakes around it.  “Yes, I like it when you fuck me like this, Mon-El.” Mon-El rewards her honesty by smacking her ass and then grabbing a fistful of her taut flesh and squeezing it, claiming it as his.  “Yes, baby,” Kara mewls, her voice sinking into the pleasure his cock and his hands provide her.  “Please.” 

Her inner muscles grip and flutter around him, so close he can feel the pulse of her racing heart, and it tempts him to end this exquisite torture and take his pleasure. She so close he can sense it in the way her clutch molds around him, in the way blood rushes to the capillaries in the skin of her back, and in the way her breathing changes, alternating from a rapid pant to the silence of holding her breath as she awaits detonation. 

She wants to come, her body clawing at it as her climax drifts within reach before ebbing cruelly away.  Her lower abdominals coil like a spring, her thighs quiver uncontrollably and inner muscles clasp at him as though he is her salvation.  But still she won’t come.  Not until he gives her permission.  She doesn’t know why her body is so beholden to him, to his voice, his commands, but it is.  And she knows that with him, when he finally lets her come, it will more powerful and intense than any orgasm born of her own will could ever be. 

“Touch your clit,” he instructs. 

‘Thank, Rao,’ she thinks, as she rises up on her left elbow and snakes her right hand down between her body and the desk to seek her wet folds.  Before finding her clit though, she scissors her fingers and reaches further back until she can feel his impossibly hard steel plunging into her.  She catches his cock between her fingers, squeezing them together so that he can feel her.  As he pummels her, her fingers become trapped between his pubic bone and the plush velvet of her plundered seam. 

Mon-El, taken by surprise by her guileless and curious experiment, hisses at the combined feel of her fingers brushing against his erection as he ruts forcefully into her. Drawing back a hand from her hip, he brings it down hard on her butt cheek.  The globe of flesh ripples in response to the attack, while Kara whimpers, biting down on her bottom lip as her cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink. 

“Do you want to find out what happens to bad girls?” he queries.  He stops thrusting, the tip of his cock withdrawing until hover just at her opening, out of reach of her fingers. 

Kara considers it for a moment, and wonders what delicious things might happen to a bad girl.  Or _not_ happen.  He might not give a bad girl the spankings she desires, the ones that make her feel every inch of the nerve endings beneath her impenetrable skin. He might refuse to ferociously lay claim to her body as if it were the richest treasure in the universe.  He might ignore her needs and leave her wanting, refuse to grant her orgasms.  Being a bad girl sounds like the last thing she could ever want. 

“No,” she insists, her voice begging for forgiveness.  Kara withdraws her fingers and dips them into the scorching heat at the top of her seam.  “I want to be your good girl.” 

“I know you do,” he replies softly, sliding back into her waiting clutch.  She tightens around him like a vise and it feels so exquisite he must gather his control to keep from taking his pleasure, before he can begin moving.  “I want you to be happy more than anything.  You know that, right?” he asks when he gains control again. 

Mon-El resumes his thrusts, fast and hard, Kara’s body absorbing the blows as her every muscle tenses at the surreal pleasure of it.  “I know,” she gasps.  “I know.” 

“Touch your clit,” he reminds her.  She had forgotten his earlier request and reached between her legs again to resume the drive to her own completion.  “Are you happy?  Do I make you happy?” he asks. 

Kara wonders at his questions, at the insecurity buried within them, and a part of her breaks inside.  Doesn’t he know how much he means to her?  How much she fears losing him?  How just the mere thought of him sends her mind into daydreams of a long future together, side by side?  Her mind drifts to the child that could possibly be growing inside of her at this moment, and for the first time a smile forms on her lips.   

“Come for me, sunshine,” he says.  And finally, as if a magic word had been spoken, she’s splintering apart, her inner walls clamping mercilessly down on him.  It’s like fire speeding through her veins, every muscle in her body tenses, even her toes curl inside of the stylish heels she still wears.  Sensing what’s to come, Mon-El grabs her elbows and yanks her swiftly backwards until her back slams into chest.  He places a cupped hand over her mouth, allowing her to scream out the unbearable pleasure that feels as though it’s ripping her apart and pulling her together at the same time.  His hand vibrates with the strength of it as he barely hangs on to his own release. 

When the scream begins to die and her body goes limp, he pulls out of her still rippling clutch and spins her around.  As she falls to the desk on her back, he lifts her legs, placing her ankles over his shoulders, and impales her on his cock again.  Grasping her thighs for leverage, his thrusts are more powerful than ever, the desk scraping its way across the carpeted floor.  Kara clutches the edges of the surface to hold herself steady as he pounds her, his cock finding every nerve ending in her sheath. His steel-gray eyes hold hers in a grip just as strong as the one his hands have on her thighs. 

Her ankles, as boneless as the rest of her, bounce so hard above his shoulders that her black high heels threaten to dislodge from her feet.  Her breasts, bouncing with each rutting penetration, give him an extraordinary show he would kill to make sure no one else ever sees. The veins in his arms and shoulders bulge beneath his skin, the tendons in his neck stretch with the effort of fucking her.  He’s her mate, and the thought it makes her insides feel like they’re melting.   She feels it again, the build within that promise to rocket her to the stars, and Kara arches her back in preparation for it, turning her head slightly so that she can maintain eye contact with him. His eyes make her feel things she’s certain no person in the history of the universe has ever felt. 

One hand slides off of her thigh and disappears and a moment later the tip of his finger flicks her clit.  “Come,” he says. 

“Fuck!” she grinds out through clenched teeth as she detonates once more.  This orgasm is not quite as intense as the previous, and she manages to keep her screams inside, thanks to a tightly closed lips.  He rides her through her release, at the same time extending her pleasure while preparing to take his own. 

When her second climax fades, Mon-El pulls out of her still clasping heat and lowers her legs from his shoulder until they dangle, enervated, from the edge of the desk. Needing to mark her once more as his, he whips off the condom covering his cock and stands over her, pumping his erection until his spine and buttocks seize uncontrollably.  With a feral growl from deep within his chest, the one she daydreams of hearing in moments when she’s alone, a stream of milky white fluid jets from his cock and lands on her belly.  Three more times he pumps and growls and spills his seed on the porcelain skin of her stomach. 

Kara thinks she _should_ be disgusted by this, but is once again surprised to discover that previous impressions, formed by a virtuous mind, of certain sexual practices have proved to be incorrect. She loves the games they play, feels safe enough with him to take risks and knows that he will accept and relish, without judgement, the discoveries of her sexuality that are yet to unfold. Rao must have known she was made this way, and chose him for her because he could fulfill her ever-evolving needs. 

Needing a moment to recover, Mon-El collapses on top of her, his mess sealing their bodies together as he roughly takes her mouth, one hand reaching to fist in her hair. He wastes no time tangling his tongue with hers, his other hand gliding up her sweaty side to cup her breast and flick the nipple with his thumb.  He could so easily have her again, if given but a few moments more to rest. 

When his mouth falls away from hers, both their breathing heavy with gratification, she decides to continue the game for a moment more, not quite ready to relinquish it.  “Was I a good girl for you?” she asks, her voice taking on an innocent, naïve tone. Not enough to be cloying, but just enough to have his cock stirring. 

Mon-El chuckles.  Gods of Val-or!  Just as he’d told Ral, his Kryptonian goddess is a fast learner who will, if he’s lucky, soon outstrip her tutor.  She’s learning the game and is more than willing to play, her body and her desires surprising him at every turn.  “Of course, sunshine,” he answers, dropping a kiss on the tip of her chin.  

“I’m glad. I don’t want to be anything but your good girl, Mon-El,” her voice almost betraying a pout.  He continues kissing her, light airy kisses, sometimes the tip of his tongue involved.  He makes his way across her jawline before placing a few kisses down her neck.  Sliding his body down a bit, his lips seek her collar bone and then her chest, kissing each of her breasts in turn.  He pays homage to her body, worships her like a deity, his mouth paying the tithe of his stewardship. 

“You will always be my everything,” he whispers into her damp skin.  “I will have the heart of any who tries to bring you harm; the head of any that betray you, and the tongue of any that shame you. Including my own, should you wish it.

Reaching her belly, he begins to give her a tongue bath, cleaning the mess he made of her. He takes his time, as though baptizing her with every part of himself he has to offer.  It’s not the first time he’s had the taste of someone’s seed on his tongue, but there’s a powerful aphrodisiac quality to his own salty flavor when mixed with Kara’s. 

“I’m yours,” she whispers, reminding him that he’s lost a world but gained a universe. She lifts her head and looks down the valley of her breasts until slate gray eyes meet cornflower blue.  “Yours.” 

When he’s through bathing her, he places a long, lingering kiss on her belly just below the navel, and Kara wonders if he knows or somehow suspects that she might be carrying his child.  They hadn’t spoken about it afterward, after the interlude in the DEO gym just a week before where they’d forgotten to use protection.  She had forgotten to remind him. 

After a long discussion with her adoptive mother about birth control options as well as the possible looming question mark of Mon-El’s mental health, Kara decided not to remind him that they had forgotten to use a condom.  She didn’t feel that the added pressure placed upon him by such knowledge would possibly help, since what was done is done.  It is a bridge she will cross when only when she must and until then she will keep squarely on the shore. 

But the strange thing is…since that night in the gym, he’s never once forgotten to wear a condom.  In fact, he’s taken to the practice more reliably than apparently many men native to this planet have.  So, she can only wonder as he kisses his way from below her belly button to the apex of her folds, if he remembered that night and has drawn some conclusions all on his own. 

Even so, she will keep her silence for now, since her reasons for that decision still stand.   

Mon-El retreats from her with a groan and reaches down to pull up his pants, he tucks himself inside, but doesn’t close the zipper.   

Kara rises to her elbows and then sits up.  “Come here,” she says, crooking a finger at him.  When he comes close, she bends down and begins licking his belly clean just as he did for her.  His hands sift through her hair as he tries not to focus on what the feel of her mouth on his does to the resting cock inside his pants. 

“Kara, you don’t have to,” he tells her, a sliver of a moan in his voice.  “I can just clean it off with my tee shirt.” 

She takes a break from her task long enough to inform him, “I keep paper towels in the bottom drawer of my desk for spill emergencies.  I _want_ to do this for you, just as you did it for me.” 

Mon-El protests no more, accepting the intimacy from her as freely given as his own. When she finishes she slides off the edge of the desk, legs still wobbly, and places her still heated flesh against his, Mon-El’s arms wrapping around her to steady her.  Kara places her hands on his shoulders and reaches up for a kiss.  Their lips mesh perfectly, as if they’re two halves of the same celestial body struck apart from one another before the beginning of time.  For long moments they kiss, breaking briefly to breathe each other’s air.  Eventually, as though momentarily sated, she ends the kiss, tucking her head into the curve of his neck as one of his hands holds her hip, the other stroking up and down her spine. 

She remembers something he said—asked—earlier and thinks now would be the best time to answer.  “Yes, Mon-El,” she says, her words like a promise. 

“Yes…what?” 

“Yes,” she says, licking her lips.  “You make me very happy.”  Her hand strokes his collar bone and chest, working its way down his side, paying homage to him as he did her.  If she could, she would wish them both away to a deserted planet on the other side of the galaxy where they could wear no clothing and do nothing all day but make love to each other. 

Mon-El bestows a kiss to her forehead and she melts into him just a little bit more. “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that,” he confesses.  He’s so close to telling her everything; opening his heart and revealing to her the fullness of its contents.  He opens his mouth to add more to his confession, but quickly slams it shut as he chickens out.  Instead he pulls her more tightly against his body, and strokes her back. 

“I can’t believe I’m standing naked in my office with you, after just having had sex…at work,” she says, suddenly shocked, yet titillated, by everything they just did. 

“Don’t be silly, you aren’t naked,” he soothes.  “You’re still wearing your shoes.” 

After a beat, she laughs glancing down at her shoes, and his laughter joins hers a second later.  It’s unbridled and joyful and beautiful, and there is nothing she wouldn’t do at his command to cause that sound again.  She presses herself more firmly against her laughing mate and slides her arms around his lower back, placing kisses on his collarbone as her hands explore the muscular expanse of his back.  A feeling of oneness grows within her, as though rooting itself in her chest and spreading outward to her extremities.  ‘Is this what love feels like?’ she wonders.   

As they wander, one of her hands brushes up against something bulky in his back pocket. Wrapping her fingers around it, she tugs until it comes free, bringing it around to his front so that she can examine the object. 

“Oh, hey,” he straightens.  “That’s not“—his hands reach to take it from her, but as expected she’s faster than he is by a narrow margin. 

“What is this?” she asks.  It’s a book; that much is obvious.  Stepping away from him, she examines its ratty cover and spine more closely, sensing Mon-El slump in defeat as she walks away from him.    “’Quick Guide to Cocktails and Other Libations,’” she reads. “Well…I know you have a fondness for alcohol, but surely you can find something more interesting to read. Something with a plot, maybe?” 

There is no way he is going to weasel his way out of this situation.  He is too bad at prevarication and she is too intuitive to believe any story he concocts anyway. 

Unless it’s the truth.

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze

 

          _When we’re moving / The same direction_

_You take the longer way / To find the end_

_I’d love to lift you / Out of your sorrow_

_Help you leave behind / Your heartache_

_\--The Boxer Rebellion – “Low”_

 

 

“I got a job,” he concedes with a heavy sigh.  “M’gann gave me a job.  She’s teaching me how to be a bartender.”

“Okay, this is good,” Ral approves, rearing his flaxen blonde head.  “It wasn’t part of the plan, but we can make this work.” Mon-El turns his face away from the nosy apparition standing at his side.

“What?” Kara asks, excitement coursing suddenly through her veins.  The thrill burns out quicker than expected, and her smile slips from her face.  “Wait. You were keeping this a secret,” she realizes.  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Mon-El busies himself with zipping up his pants and rooting around for his shirt, avoiding her pinpoint examination, and most importantly, the bright blue of her shining eyes.   Or how she stands there, naked but for her black high heels, but confident as though she were fully clothed in battle armor.  “Because,” he says, throwing up his hands.   “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it…at any of it,” he says, curiously.  “Already it’s a lot to learn and a lot of pressure.”

“Am I putting too much on pressure on you?” she asks, her confidence slipping enough to catch his attention.  A seed of insecurity growing in her voice.  Her nakedness now obviously apparent to her, she begins gathering her clothes, first pulling her hopelessly wrinkled skirt before slipping into her bra as though it’s an afterthought.  “I don’t mean to put pressure on you,” she explains.  “I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do that again – it’s how we went all wrong in the beginning.  Mon-El…no one knows better than I do how hard it is to come here with nothing.  At least I had the Danvers, all you have is…me.”

“Look at her,” Ral whispers into Mon-El ear.  “She thinks she’s doing something wrong, brother.  We can’t have her thinking that.  Not if we want this to work.  She thinks she’s not enough.  How can she think that?  Fix it.”

“No,” Mon-El says, shaking his head fervently.  “You’re not pressuring me.  I just….” He scratches his cheek to hide the tic of emotion in his jaw, before it gives him away.  “I just want to be good for you.  Be what you need.”

“You are,” she insists, a lump of emotion rising in her throat, threatening to choke off her air.  “You _are_ what I need.”

“No,” he disagrees.  “I mean, here maybe…with this,” he says, indicating the desk and all that they’d just done.  “This is great.  It’s amazing, Kara.  And you are everything I’ve ever wanted in a mate.  But I know that you can’t say the same about me.”

“Tell him, Kara,” Ral insists, though Mon-El knows she can’t hear him.  “Tell him that he’s an idiot and that he’s what you want too. Tell him that you only feel truly loved for who you are when you’re in his arms.”

It’s all the things he _wishes_ she would say to him.

She can see it in the way his eyes shutter, as if he’s lost contact with her and his attention is elsewhere.  He’s slipping away from her.  “Where are you right now?” she ask, drawing him back to her.  “Mon-El?”

“What?” His head snaps up, as he tears his attention away from Ral, who seems quite disappointed that Kara’s attention has shifted elsewhere.

“Where did you go just then?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he insists, covering.  Mon-El shakes his head, like a dog agitated over an uncomfortable high pitch only it can hear.  Briefly, she stretches out her hearing, tuning it towards anything that might explain his apparent discomfort, but finds nothing.  “I’m right here.”

“Are you okay?” she asks, fearfully.

“I’m good,” he promises, straightening his spine and placing his hands on his hips.

Kara narrows her eyes suspiciously searching for the cracks in his façade.  “Hold it together,” Ral urges, in a most unhelpful manner.  He wants to yell, to scream, that if his friend _really_ wanted to be helpful he would just shove off.  Mon-El mentally draws himself in tight, hiding the cracks from his mate’s extraordinary vision.

“Okay,” she relents.  He’s hiding something, she’s certain, but she believes she already knows what it is and she plans to bring it out into the open, but first things first.  “I’m happy for you,” she tells him.  “About the job.  I think you’ll be great at it.”

“I didn’t tell you because…if I’m not great at it…if it turns out I screw this one up too…I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Mon-El,” she sighs, the lump in her throat returning, wetness springing to her eyes. She recalls how disappointed she was in him when interning at CatCo turned out not to be his thing.  She recalls her disappointment when he’d attempted to be muscle-for-hire for a local loan shark.  “Not everyone finds themselves on the first try.  And you’re at a disadvantage because this is all new to you.”

“You’re telling me,” he mumbles.  “I wasn’t going to keep it a secret forever,” he promises.  “Just until I knew if it would work out.  I wanted to surprise you, because if it does, I can go off the stipend and move out of the DEO, maybe get my own place….”

“No more curfews,” she gathers.

“No more curfews,” he echoes, confirming the direction his thoughts lead.

Kara smiles, imagining waking in his arms each morning, a kaleidoscope of butterflies taking flight in her belly.  He’s so uncertain about his future and Kara wishes he could see what she sees when she looks at him.  The limitless potential, the goodness he hides under false detachment and the empathy for others he masks behind laughter and flippancy.  “You’re going to do great,” she encourages him, the way he has encouraged her on so many occasions.  “But even if bartending isn’t your calling…then you’ll find something else. What’s important is that you don’t stop trying.” Kara takes a deep breath and tilts her head to the side, pushing her glasses back in place on the bridge of her nose.  “Make a deal with me, okay?”

“I am yours to command,” he chuckles.  Kara flinches, because she knows he’s hiding pain and uncertainty behind that glib response.

”If you promise not to give up on you…I promise not to give up on you.”

Mon-El hears a catch in her voice and born of this evidence, he understands that her vow is about more than just him finding a suitable vocation.  It’s about his life— _their_ life.  At times, he wonders if she can see the all the fear and despair and the loss he works so hard to hide from her, and he thinks that maybe her instincts are more impeccable than he’d realized.  “How can I say no to you?” he asks, genuinely.

“Promise?”

“I promise. I won’t give up.”  A charged look passes between them, as though reading the truth in each other’s eyes, and tension in Kara’s shoulders visibly releases.

“It’s getting closer now, brother,” Ral reminds him.  “The storm approaches, growing closer with each breath.  But you’re going to be fine,” he pledges. “She’ll be here for you when I no longer can.”

Mon-El’s gaze snaps towards Ral.  What was that supposed to mean?

“So, when do you start?  At the bar, I mean?”

“Yeah…so, my new schedule starts tomorrow – 7 PM to 2 AM.  No more curfews.  At least not on the nights that I’m working.”

“You’ll come over after closing?” she asks, both wondering and giving permission at the same time.

Mon-El’s smile lights up, two dimples appearing on his face.  “If you want.”

Kara’s grin matches his and her head bobs eagerly up and down.  “I’ll leave the window open for you.”  Mon-El’s smile slips a little as her words clearly remind him of something.  His eyes drift away from her again.  “What is it?” she inquires.

“’But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?’” he quotes perfectly, the memory inherited from his father serving him well.   “’It is the east and Juliet is the sun.’”

“You read Romeo and Juliet?” she asks.

“Saw the movie,” he corrects.  “Last night after returning to the DEO.  I asked Winn about it and he added it to my queue.  Do you think we’re doomed?”

“What?” she exclaims, horrified.  “Why would you ask that?”

“You kept referencing the story and saying we were like them.”

“Because we come from rival planets,” she assures him.  “Not because I think our differences are going to tear us apart. Mon-El…we have more in common than not. More and more, every day,” she smiles coyly, clearly referencing their ever-converging sexual needs.  Kara slips into her pink, faux-wrap blouse and straightens it carefully, so that it doesn’t appear as though it’s been recently thrown into a heap on the floor. 

“You really believe that?” he asks, hopefully.

“I do,” she confirms.  “The destruction of our planets, the loss of our cultures, the loss of our families, and being forced to make our way on a strange new world; doesn’t that bring us together more than any cultural divergences can pull us apart?”

“I hope so,” he agrees.

“It’s not like we’re Gata Fel-Ur and Trel-Gand,” she reassures him.

“Uh-oh,” Ral grimaces.  “Tread carefully, brother.”

“What about Gata Fel-Ur and Trel-Gand?”  Mon-El’s attention piques at her mention of the famous mixed-raced mates.  The powerful muscles of his arms and upper back tense at the mention of the notorious lovers, and he braces to hear what she might say.  

“I just meant…I’m not afraid of you.  Even if you could, I know you would never hurt me like that.”

“What exactly have you been told?”

“Does it matter?” she asks.

“Well, it happened long before you were born,” he points out.  “Truth has a tendency to become fiction over time.”

“Truth is always truth,” she answers, shaking her head.

“Remember,” Ral warns.  “She only knows the story she was told, and she was child then.”

“Depends on who’s telling it,” he counters.  Mon-El drops into her desk chair, leaning back to listen to tale about to unfold. “You should know that…doing what you do.”

“Fine,” Kara relents, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk.  “Gata was sheltered and she got in over her head.  Crown Prince Trel seduced her, isolated her from everything she ever knew and loved, and made her feel like a second class citizen in a palace that should have become her home.  At the urging of the Kryptonian High Council, it was agreed in the marriage contracts that they would attempt to conceive a child naturally rather than through the birthing matrix.  It was hoped that a naturally conceived child might unite Krypton and Daxam after centuries of separation.  Not long after their bonding ceremony she became pregnant with this child.  Then the man that she trusted and loved got drunk and killed her and the unborn child she carried, in the _mistaken_ belief that she had been pregnant by another already at the time of their union.  He was unwilling to risk having Daxamite power fall under the rule of a bastard Kryptonian heir.  That’s not going to be us, Mon-El.  There are no more crowns, no more councils, and no people to unite.  There’s nothing left to rule.”

He wants to rebut her story; to tell her everything he knows about what _actually_ happened to Gata and Trel.  But to make her believe the truth he would have to explain _how_ he knows what he knows, and Mon-El isn’t sure he wants to go back there, even if only in memory.

“She’s not ready,” Ral agrees.  “And neither are you.  Besides...why tell her when there’s nothing that can be done?”  

“We don’t know that,” Mon-El mumbles.

“Let her have her story,” Ral pleads.  “For now at least.”

“What was that?” Kara asks, confused by his comment.

“Nothing,” he covers.  “I just meant that we don’t know…that’s the reason she died.”

“We know enough.”

After a moment of consideration, Mon-El relents without a fight. “I suppose.  No wonder you hated me on spec.  Thinking that we murder our pregnant wives on Daxam.”

“Mon-El,” she shakes her head.  “Honestly…I didn’t even remember that story until much later.  After I stopped hating you for no reason.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess,” Ral deadpans.

“Good to know,” Mon-El nods.  He moves to stand from the chair, but she places her foot on his knee which spikes his curiosity.

“There’s something else I wanted…needed…to talk to you about. Actually, I was hoping that you’d bring it up on your own, but it’s not like I gave you time to take a breath when you walked into the door.  I practically threw myself at you, didn’t I?  I mean…it’s just that I had been thinking about you all day, and waiting, without panties—“

“Kara, you’re babbling,” he chuckles, a dimpled grin spreading across his face.  He could watch her do this all day.  For a second, he wonders if she wants to talk to him about the night they had unprotected sex and what that might mean for them.  “You’re babbling and crinkling.  What is it?”

Kara sighs, and then takes a deep breath.  Now that the moment of truth is here, she’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, of him thinking she’s disappointed in him or that she wants to push him away.  “Can we talk about…Valor?”

The smile melts from his face and he should have known—should have known—that she would figure it out in ten seconds flat and, damn it, he was supposed to be the one to tell her.  But now, she’s sure to be furious at him for not telling her the moment it happened. His brain scrambles for excuses, alibis, anything that might him out of this.

“She’s giving you an opening, you idiot,” Ral grates, frustrated. “Come clean now while you can.  If you lie to her and she proves it on her own, you will most certainly lose her trust.”

Ral isn’t wrong, Mon-El knows.  “I came here to tell you.  I wanted to tell you before you figured it out.  I guess…I underestimated you,” he chuckles raggedly, scratching at his cheek.  “I just want you to know that there wasn’t a plan,” he adds, afraid to search her face for clues to her inner thoughts.  “It just…happened.”

“I know,” she nods.

“I heard the crash from a few miles away and….”

“And you couldn’t do nothing,” she finishes.

“Yeah,” he confirms, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“That part I understand, baby,” she soothes.  The term of endearment surprises—thrills—him, giving him hope, and he can’t stop himself from looking up into her face.  “No one understands that better than I do.  I’m so proud of you.”

“For becoming the hero you always wanted me to be?”

“No,” she replies.  “For making your own choice…for being your own person.”

And it’s true, Mon-El realizes.  In the early hours of the morning, he heard the sounds of lives in distress, and he didn’t stop to think about what Kara might have done in the same situation.  He simply acted, in a moment of absolute purity.  In that instant, as he leapt into action while monitoring the sounds of a tearful woman’s 911 call, Mon-El of Daxam was more himself than he had ever been in perhaps his entire life.

Kara climbs down from her seat and settles into his lap.  His arms go around her waist as if they are meant to perch there.  “But tell me about the rest of it.”  She cups his cheek with one hand and turns his gaze to meet hers.  “The stuff they’re not talking about on the news.”

“What stuff?” he asks, clearly confused about what information she wants.

“The transformers,” she offers, the pride in her eyes just a moment before not turning to pity and sadness.  

“Oh, she’s good,” Ral praises, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, an expression of admiration on his face.  “She’ll know all your secrets soon enough and you won’t even need me anymore.”

“You know about that?” Mon-El’s pitch rises, a tinge of fear in his voice.  “How do you know about that?”  He had been so careful.  Blended in with members of the DEO, avoided all the cameras by moving quickly and using blind spots, and moving up towards the roof where the security was significantly more lax.

“After the news hit about Valor this morning, I started fielding calls from people with eyewitness reports of a man, on multiple occasions, purposefully draining power transformers from the rooftops of several downtown office buildings.  Their descriptions matched the description of Valor provided by Mrs. Hardwick.”

“Who?”

“The woman you saved,” Kara informs him.  “Anyway…I did the math and put it together, which is kind of my job.  What I need you tell me is…why?”  She knows why, or at least she thinks she does.  But he needs to talk about it, and she needs to hear it from his own mouth. “I knew that you could absorb electricity to repair your body on a cellular level—you were doing it before you came out of your coma.   But I never realized you’d learned to control it.”

“Barely,” he acknowledges.  “I can absorb it, all right, but shutting it off can be tricky. And when I get too much I have to burn it off or I feel sick.”

“According to the eyewitnesses, all of the events occurred between three and five in morning.  All times when you should have been safely signed in at the DEO, which means you were breaking curfew to do it.”  Kara looks at him pointedly.  “I know that you would never break the DEO’s rules unless it was for a good reason.”

Mon-El shrugs in a nonchalant manner that doesn’t fool her for a second.  “I was never very good at following rules.”

Kara cards her fingers through his hair, and Mon-El leans into her touch.  “When was the last time you slept for more than an hour or two at a time?” she asks.

Mon-El’s eyes slide over the Ral, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, and a knowing smirk on his face.  An hour or two at a time would be a generous estimate of the kind of sleep he’s been getting.  “Does the Medusa Virus count?”

“No, it doesn’t.”  She pins him with a glare that tells him he’s still expected to answer the question she asked.  “When?”

“It’s been a while.”

“When?”

“I slept fine for the first two weeks after coming out of stasis, but then….” His voice trails off.

“Then the nightmares started,” she adds.  Off his shocked his expression, she interjects, “Don’t look so surprised.  I came here with my memories intact, just like you.  Sometimes I wonder if Kal-El wasn’t the lucky one.  He craves the memories I have of Krypton, and I’m thankful for them, but I wouldn’t wish those last few days on anyone.  The terror of it…still haunts me.”  Her eyes glaze over as though recalling the parts that she allows to penetrate her memory.

“Nightmares,” he echoes.  “Right.”  If only that was all of it.  If only he could tell her about the invisible dead friend that stalks his every move. The dead friend he’s not sure he wants to abandon him.  How can he ever find a way to say goodbye?

“But it’s important to sleep and it’s important to dream, Mon-El? Even if it’s terrifying.  I know…I tried to avoid it, too.  But it’s a part of the grieving process and if you don’t do that then it’s like…running on that treadmill of yours.  Pouring in all that effort and getting nowhere.”

“Beautiful and smart,” Ral points out.

“It also helps to have someone to talk to.  And you need to know that I am always here for you.  No matter what.  It’s what mates are for, right?”

Words easier said than actualized, Mon-El knows, but he loves her nonetheless for saying them.  It’s just that there’s so much she doesn’t know, and telling her would surely cost him the gains he has made with her.  “Right,” he replies.

“I believe it’s why Rao brought you to me.”  Kara leans down a places a chaste kiss on her mate’s lips. “Because you need me.”

“She’s not wrong,” Ral chimes in.  “I mean…it was probably Lure or Bask or…hey, maybe even Fallon. But who am I to argue over divinities at a time like this?  Your arrival on her planetary doorstep was no accident, brother.  You’d be smart to accept this.”

Mon-El slides his hand up her spine to the back of her neck and steers her down for another kiss.  She doesn’t resist as his lips takes hers in a much less chaste fashion than the kiss she initiated.  When he pulls away, the room spins a little around her, her breath coming in quick pants. “I definitely need you,” he agrees, his gray eyes warming over.  “Have I mentioned lately that I made an excellent choice for a mate?”

Kara throws her head back for a laugh.  “Oh…you chose me, did you?”

“That’s the way I remember it,” he chuckles.  “Long before you took me to your splendorous bed.  For which I am eternally grateful, by the way.

“Liar,” she accuses, but there’s no heat in her voice.

“No,” he nods his head.  “I am grateful.”  His hand slithers up her skirt, coming within centimeters of her heated promised land.

Kara smacks him in the chest, but lets his hand claim its spot without a fight.  “I meant about you choosing me.”

“Oh…that’s completely true.”

“When did that happen?  I must have missed it.”

“It’s no wonder,” he tells her.  “You were a little busy punching me in the face and saying, ‘Stay down, Daxamite!’  Then when you were all fire, and steel and uncompromising authority, I knew I was lost. Did I mention the legs that go up to…here?” his questing thumb brushes against her warm and still damp thatch. Kara’s breath catches before she giggles that laugh; the one that lets Mon-El almost believe for half a second that he can make her happy.  He grins in return.  I love you.

His eyes speak of emotions that his mouth has yet to reveal, and Kara finds her lungs unable to work for a moment.  Does he feel those things she sees in his eyes?  Truly?  Is he aware of it?  Her belly flutters deep and low in the pit of her womb.  Will he say the words?  And will she be ready to hear them when he does?

On Krypton, marriages were made for love and affection, but on Daxam such was not the case.  There, children were paired off with plans toward consolidating power and currency and gaining political capital.  Mon-El would not have been raised with the same expectations of a mate that she was. Kara wonders, for the first time, who had been his betrothed?  Like all Daxamite children he would have been matched with a mate before reaching puberty and then wedded at some point during young adulthood.  Yet, he had never spoken of a wife or even any family members, but there must have been someone.  She resolves to one day ask about the life taken from him.

But, she wonders, can he see in her eyes what she sees in his? Is that what she feels for him? Love?  Surely, undeniably, there is affection—she would never allow him to be so free with her body were there not.  She has given herself to him to in so many ways; her body, her commitment, her future, but she withholds her heart.  

There’s a voice inside that whispers she can still lose him. He teeters on the edge of something he might not survive and if she lets herself love him and loses him…it will destroy her.  She cannot lay herself bare in that way, not until she learns how to help him survive.

“We can’t,” she sighs, brushes his hand away from between her legs, and adds, “Again.”

“I bet we could if we tried,” he disagrees.

“There’s too much to fix, Mon-El, and we should do it as quickly as possible.  There’s no time to delay.”

“Great,” he replies, as though game for whatever she has in mind. “What are we fixing?”

“Look, James assigned me the Valor story.  He wants me to get an interview with our new superhero.”

“Seriously?  He hasn’t figured it out yet?  Just a few months ago I was fighting that creature alongside him….”

“Sometimes people only see what they want to see…or what you let them see.”  She points to her glasses to prove her point.  “I should know.”

He felt the crushing weight of his heroic choice weighing down upon him once more.  “Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about giving an interview.”

“You don’t have to—not really.  That’s the beauty of it.  We sit down together and decide what information we’ll release to the public and what we won’t.  That way the ravenous public will me mollified for the time being and you’ll be able to maintain a great deal more anonymity.”

Mon-El considers her proposal and feels the heavy weight easing from his shoulders.  “It could work.”

“Of course it will, don’t be silly.  It’s my idea, isn’t it?”  Kara reaches up and in two shakes of tail feather her flowing locks disappear into a neat and tidy chignon, and she’s back to being Kara Danvers, Intrepid Stringer.  A sliver of sadness streaks through Mon-El, as he watches his sunshine, the Kara only he gets to see, be enveloped by the alter ego she wears like a second skin.

“So what now?”

“We go to DEO, together, and confess to J’onn and Alex about your nocturnal activities and how it led to the appearance of Valor.”

Mon-El’s head falls back smacking into the headrest of her office chair.  He grimaces almost comically.  Only Kara would recognize the hint of truth in his expression.  “Do we have to?”

“Yes…we do,” she answers, staring at him over the tops of her extraneous glasses like a humorless school marm.  “Besides…what do you think are the odds that Alex hasn’t figured it out already?”

“I’m going to guess the odds are pretty low.”

Kara shrugs.  “There’s a chance she’s having an off day.  Or that she’s been locked in a panic room somewhere without access to a television…or her phone.”

“Well if she didn’t have her phone that would explain why she hasn’t contacted you about being locked in a panic room,” he reasons. “Whatever that is.”  Kara giggles, and an answering grin spreads across Mon-El’s face, deepening the dimples there.  After a moment, his face slides back to a more serious landscape.  “All right then.  I suppose I should go dance to some music.”

“What…?  I don’t…oh! I think you mean ‘face the music’.” Kara gathers her duffel bag as well as her purse and reaches her hand for his, holding it as he stands up.

“Is that the same thing as a Faragut Nemsan?” he wonders.

“I’m not familiar.”

“It’s a Daxam custom where a citizen stands before the wronged and acknowledges wrongdoings so that they may be redressed.”

“Sounds about right,” she nods, walking with him to the door.

“I like the way ‘face the music’ sounds better,” he tells her. “Less like I’m going to have my ass handed to me and more like I’m going to a party.”

Kara laughed, locking the office door behind her as they step out into the hall.  “C’mon,” she chuckles and then takes his hand again.  “I’m sure it won’t be that bad, and I know how much you love a party.”

 

The End


End file.
